THE DRAGON RIDERS
by staldex
Summary: When Eragon is hunting in the mountain range known as Du Lefs Janear, he discovers a small golden dragon with a blue stone incruste in its head. After touching the stone, he will have to make unimaginable sacrafices during the path that lies ahead of him.
1. Fire in the Sky

_**THE DRAGON RIDERS**_

_**CHAPTER 1: FIRE IN THE SKY**_

Incandescent flames billowed throughout the mountainous landscape. The glow burned against the night sky with such contrast that one would have to avert their gaze in order to avoid damage to their eyes; any direct look at the sea of flames swirling like waves would be like looking into the sun. The sky was blurred with a grayish cloud of smoke, and smelt like burning seeder coupled with a harsh stench of rotting meat. As the fire lashed about, a hooded person emerged from what seemed to be pure rock. From the person's body language, one could tell that the person was in a great hurry, not only because of the deadly surroundings, but because of how the cloaked person looked around frantically back at where he or she had appeared from, afraid at what might come out of what seemed like a solid piece of rock. As mysterious stranger looked around desperately, panic-stricken, the sound of hooves thundering against the ground erupted, and grew louder, and louder, creeping ever closer like mountain lion stalking a cornered prey. Then, suddenly, the unknown person jumped like some wild animal, as the speed and height would astound any viewer. The person disappeared into the thick brush and ran with such amazing speed and quietness that at a distance could be taken for a cat. Sleek as the person was, however, he or she was no match for a steed. The only advantage was that horses could not maneuver with the usual grace and quickness that usually suited them in country that had trees as clustered as here.

As the person vanished among the brush, half a dozen men on horses emerged from an unseen path. They looked around, the looks on their faces intense. The fire did not seem to bother them, as if the almost alive flames could engulf anything but them. They closed together and immersed in deep strategic conversation. After a few seconds of muttering and pointing, two of the six broke off in the direction they had previously came from, while the remaining four set off into the forest that the person they were most likely chasing had ran into. As they did, one of the men had another person behind them on their steed. This rider stayed back. It seemed as if the person he was carrying held significance among the group, for he did not wear armor and was not garbed with any weapons or leather, nor any greaves and bracers at first speculation. He wore a simple black cloak, made of very shiny silk, that seemed to move with the wind and air at all times. The man's eyes were white, and he looked to be muttering something very deliberately, as if to will whatever he was saying. The other three soldiers stopped, and backed away towards the fire, looking frightened, as one could see their faces for their helms were not closed to guard the face. The horses seemed reluctant to edged toward the fire.

At that moment, the lively flames behind that seared even the birds that flew far above them seemed to grow still. They did not lash out unpredictably. Even the heat was reduced so much that fire had never felt as cold. Then, as if by transportation, another fire erupted in front of the riders, just as fierce and destructive as the one behind them had been. And with that, the other two horsemen arrived, looking confident. They exchanged some very quick words with the rider carrying the cloaked man, who seemed unaffected by the news they brought him. Apparently, he had expected this, and sending them in that direction was merely a precaution. With haste, the six trotted gingerly on a new path the fire had created. The flames seemed to doing the will of the horsemen, for the white-hot flames never crossed their paths, and once never lash out in their direction. To the contrary, they seemed to be forming a burnt trail going straight ahead of them to where the person who was running had gone. The horses picked up speed, charging for that small space. The fire, if it deserved such a realistic term, never closed up, as if an invisible line prevented it from doing so. As they charged, the black-cloaked man had stopped moving his mouth and his eyes had returned to their normal grey. At the edge of the peak, they stopped. They had not expected such a steep hill, and therefore the horse could not go down. The rider at the back, who seemed to be the leader, shouted something at the two who had been sent to search in the flames but a few minutes previously. The two dismounted, drew their swords, and edged carefully, each looking the opposite way, down the hill. At that moment, a long stick flew from the right side of slope, piercing both warriors, and pinning them to each other at the heart.

The remaining four soldiers did not tarry. They bolted down the hill towards the right, brandishing their swords like mad men. The black-cloaked man remained, and his pupils went white again, and he began chanting a haunting melody that echoed over the whooshing of flames. The fire then lashed in the direction of where the spear had been thrown, engulfing them in inferno. Those flames in turn lashed again toward an unknown spot. As it hit it's intended spot, it seemed to deflect to the side, and reemerged as a great ball, which was thrust back at the four men, who had barely traversed half the distance between the slight clearing and the person who they were after. The fire engulfed two, and not as before, burned and battered them to oblivion. The black-cloaked man did not linger in surprise. In fact, he had seemed to anticipate this move. With a quick motion, he waved his hand over the forest and after barely a split second, the many fifty-foot tall trees with trunks as thick as three men could wrap their arms around, collapsed with speed greater than gravity. They collapsed on the area where the flames had been directed. The two men with swords stopped at the sight, dismayed. They approached with extreme caution. One tapped the very top log, and without warning, it flew out of it's place and crushed the final two men, landing on them and rolling them flat like dough. The cloaked man scowled as he beheld a women standing their, un-hooded, panting slightly at the effort of pushing a seven hundred pound log from such an awkward position. She stepped forward.

She did not look right, though. Her ears seemed pointed at the tips, and were longer and more animalistic. Her eyes were a light blue that seemed to gaze past what she stared at, as if she could not be deceived. The eyelashes seemed to make them narrower, and thus enhancing her non-human characteristics. Her hair was hip-length, wavy, and rich shade of red. She wore a brown travelling cloak, and within one of it's many folds drew a gleaming silver blade. The whiteness of it was hard to look at after such long and arduous view of unnatural fire. The black-cloaked man did not wait. Yet he did not carry a sword. Instead, he walked forward, and, with an upward motion of his pale hand, created a flaming blade. The fire surrounded what looked to be vibrating metal. It was a deep orange, and protected the inside of whatever it was. The handle was glowing slightly brighter, as if it's masters touch held a level of importance. His hair had receded, and was pure white. A bald patch on his head held a tattoo of two coiling serpentine creatures. And, with a humorless, insane laugh, lunged at the woman with surprising speed. She did not wait. As the man lunged, she swerved to the side and swung her blade up, catching the flaming sword, if, like the fire, deserved such a life-like term. The man swung it back to his left, than did a side-swipe, trying to behead the woman. She danced back a couple of step with such balance and speed; the man seemed caught of guard. The woman then did an overhand swing with such ferocity that it seemed to be able to break anything. The man barely reacted in time, and blocked the fatal blow in such and awkward stance that his left arm jarred. Left with only one good hand, he kept a safe distance from the woman, who was able to best him at every turn. Whenever he struck down at her feet, she would trap his sword, swing hers up, and deliver a deep cut, while jumping away from him to avoid sharing the same fate. When he swung with an overhand swing, she blocked it with apparent ease, and with an effort pushed him back with enough energy to knock a normal down with force. When swing from side to side, she simply deflected the shots in the opposite direction and stabbed at his body, succeeding many times. The disadvantage of one good arm severely weakened his chances of winning, which were slim to begin with. His arm grew weary, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he succumbed to the body-numbing injuries all over his torso and legs. Finally, abandoning all caution, he dropped his sword and began muttering inaudible things with as much haste as he could. The woman seemed to be waiting for this, for when he did, she struck the ground with her sword, and yelled. The ground trembled violently. The man's concentration lapsed. His eyes were not white anymore. Seizing the initiative, the woman stabbed him in the heart so violently that he was lifted off the ground. She then flick her sword to her right, and an odd sound came as the flesh left the blade and the body went flying several feet. For one moment, she allowed herself to relax, and then returned to where the trees had crashed.

With a great effort, she removed the few logs that covered where she had been crouched. And their she found the pouch within which was what the horsemen and the man with supernatural abilities had been after. She looked back, and after examining the fire, mouthed a few phrases that sounded like a hymn. The fire dimmed and flickered, and eventually went out, and the ground it had been charring held no evidence of their ever being a fire. As for the flames a ways away, the weather would take care of them. It was fall, and rain was as expected as this attack. She then picked up the pouch with care. It was about the size of her torso. She then continued to walk north, and after a few minutes, reached her destination. Their infront of her lay an endless field of crops and hay. The yellowish colour was not their as it was in the daytime. Yet her eyes also had a keener sense of vision, and could see farther than most other beings. She looked out beyond the city to the left, lights flashing and slight noises that humans couldn't hear coursing throughout the night air. And then her gaze shifted to her right. Among the farmland, there was a small hill, and on top of that hill a small cabin. Smoke oozed out of a chimney from the fire inside. A small boy opened the door and stooped down to pick up what was a small dog. As he prepared to enter the house again, he looked back, a puzzled look upon his face. He could not see the woman; she was nearly a kilometre away, and on the very edge of the mountains and the farm. He turned back into his house and shut the door behind him.

The woman opened the pouch, and from within it's depths pulled out a small creature, no bigger than the dog the small boy owned. The small animal coughed and a puff of smoke escaped its nostrils. The woman smiled and held it up to the sky. Eager as she was to lighten her burden, she could not help but think of the consequences of her action. Then again, the dragon would only chose one and the one it had chosen resided within this small, secluded town.


	2. In the Chill of the Night

_**THE DRAGON RIDERS**_

_**CHAPTER 2: IN THE CHILL OF THE NIGHT**_

The glowing sun was slowly fading as it set calmly over the vast meadow that stretched as far as the sky itself. It met the everlasting horizon like two great wonders of nature coming together into one spectacular scene. The radiant light emanating from the sun illuminated the eye-dazzling landscape that sat in its place undisturbed. The ominous glow of the sun high lighted the never-ending columns and rows of crops. They took up nearly twenty-five square kilometers of space. The tall blades of grass that seemed as dry as hay were trampled by the blowing winds of autumn. The land was known as Palancar Valley to the small village of Carvahall, and seemed to be many kilometers away from the main part of the town. The deer had come down to graze and bed down lazily in the field, for predators rarely attacked out in the open. They had, in the previous year, been responsible for destroying over thirty-seven hectares of crops and farmland owned by numerous merchants and farm people who could not afford to pay their increasing debts if they could not bring in a successful harvest. The city was called Yazuac, named after the first monarch of the city. The nobles and lords of the city constantly spent its royalties. They spent it faster than it came in, resulting in a long term economic recession. And they decided, with difficulty, to drive the deer north towards Palancar Valley and Carvahall. Without realizing the severe consequences that were to befall them if they continued with their barbaric plan, they killed nearly seven-hundred of them, depleting their numbers to but a mere fraction of what it once was. The once great city had lost more than what the deer had destroyed. In their ignorance, Yazuac had lost its main meat, fur, and trade source. The city's former splendor and wealth had been lost. No more antlers to be used to make bows. No more thick fur and hides for the winter and for everyday materials. No more meat source. Not even any useful materials for trade, which was huge part to the success of the city, for it gave them an advantage over neighboring towns and cities, since they strictly controlled the most valuable resource to everyone in the northwestern part of the kingdom. Left with damaged farmlands that would take a year or two before the soil was once again rich as it use to be, the governors were forced to travel constantly and trade the valuable paintings and artifacts that had once defined their once great city.

The small population of Carvahall, no more than a meager five-hundred or so, enjoyed the tremendous riches the deer brought. Because of the immense size of Palancar Valley, the deer had unlimited grazing grounds and would still not do any major harm to the town, for the people from Yazuac had to trade their crops in order to receive the resources of the deer. The locals did not worry about what they were giving, for the deer had flourished in the uppermost mountains right beside Palancar Valley, and everyone had what they needed and more. The town prospered, and had grown vigorously. The population had sky-rocketed from five-hundred to a few thousand. The people expanded their territory, building new houses and businesses. It was a golden age. But these people were smarter. They did not over use any resource, nor did they diminish the value of any sector of land. The expansion seemed like a passing of the guard. Yazuac had practically given it's wealth to Carvahall and a new stronghold was emerging.

And with it came an unforeseen difficulty. One day, during the late summer, around August, when the merchants were out selling, and the farmers buying, a cavalry of twenty men rode into the town. They were garbed in metal-studded pieces of rough and torn leather. They wore these on their forearms and shins, allowing flexibility along with protection from many forms of attack. They all wore black chest-plates and had loose armor wrapped around their triceps and biceps. Each had a sheath on their right hip, within which was a sword with a black hilt that had a dark red ruby incrusted in the center. They bore no helms, for what did they have to fear from a probably defenseless town full of uneducated working class people? The lead rider had drawn his sword, and summoned all before him to kneel. He had then said "Your town has grown greatly over these past few years. You have successfully taken Yazuac's place. Your city will now be subject to annual taxes that must be paid to your rightful king, Galbatorix. If you come peacefully, we shall not harass you nor rob you of all your wealth. If, however, you are too proud to acknowledge yourselves as helpless, then we shall have no choice but to burn and batter your humble town. Speak now!"

A large man had emerged from the depths of the crowd. He spat on the ground in front of the soldiers. "Bah! You do not have the means to subjugate us to your will. We don't serve anyone but ourselves. And even if we did serve under another, why would we betray ourselves and serve that piece of cow dung? We outnumber you over one-hundred to one! What can you do against us?"

Without warning, the lead horsemen beheaded the bearded man in front of him with one, swift, fluid motion, as if practiced. The head went flying into the arms of a nearby woman, who looked to afraid to let go of it. A spurt of blood sprayed on to the surrounding people, each of them recoiling in disgust.

"You now see how serious we are. Lay down your weapons or die." Several people dropped to their knees, hands on their heads. Yet several remained standing. "Very well," said the lead rider. He made an odd gesture with his sword-free hand, and, out of a dark corner, a fair number of arrows flew in the direction of the still defiant onlookers. They were all pierced by the arrows, and fell with finality to the dusty ground below. Other people had come out to watch, as the men were in the centre of the city. After a few seconds of silence, a storm of fifty men, half on horses, the other half on foot, stormed the intruders from all sides. The fourteen in the front were met by five of the twenty, and the locals were also struck with bows from unknown sources. Many fell right when they were struck, which caused the horses to trip up and send their riders flying. Within seconds the five members of Galbatorix's army dispatched the remaining members of the charge. The other three groups had engaged and were outnumbered over two to one. Still, they each disarmed and either killed or mortally wounded one Carvahall soldier each. These invaders seemed to have a lot more energy at their disposal, and the quickness of their blades caught many by surprise. The only advantage for the local army was that they had the passion to fight beyond death, but even they could not escape its clutches. All the soldiers of Galbatorix's army had to do was subdue their groups while slowly taking out a soldier or two. They were well coordinated, and their skill and reserve energy did not allow them to waver or falter. The first group that had killed the fourteen from the front had joined the other three, and, within a few minutes, killed the remaining thirty-six. The locals were slow and disorganized, making tactical attacks as easy as they could be. This was not the whole army of Carvahall, but if these men could not beat a group of twenty, the rest did not stand much chance either. Only one of the twenty remaining horsemen had been injured; a small slash upon the right cheek. There was something unnatural about these men, for they did not pant like normal men should after such an intense battle. And they defeated fifty men with such ease and quickness one could question their humaneness. Ever since that faithful day, Carvahall had had to pay half of its yearly income, along with other various other taxes, to Galbatorix's army. This halted the great expansion and left the town in ruins, for every man who reached the age of sixteen was required to serve in Galbatorix's army and pledge allegiance to him in the most binding of ways. Murders had taken a large spike upward, for anyone who dared challenge their captives would be punished in public severely to set an example. Palancar Valley, though, had remained untouched. The soldiers had not seen it, nor bothered to explore in that general direction. None recognized it as the source of the town's former stolen grandeur.

It was here that Eragon pondered these extreme political issues. He had often been criticized for being too involved in the affairs of the law by his father. _A boy of your age shouldn't worry himself over the issues that aren't his problem_. Eragon always wondered what about politics that attracted his interest. Despite not being able to read or write, and being fairly elementary in numbers, he listened to everything he heard, and he was always trying to eavesdrop on the mayor's conversations, although it had become increasingly difficult. At one point, a guard slashed his sword at Eragon, who escaped with a minor gash; nothing the local healer Selendra could not mend. He wondered how he would influence any political outcome, for he yearned for an education. But that was only for the people from the city, the ones with enough gold to buy their way in. Besides, he did not enjoy being pushed around by Galbatorix's soldiers for being but a simple farm boy whose duty in life was not to ask questions, but to work long hours every day with little food and a suffer in a shabby, leaking cabin. He gazed at his surroundings. Palancar Valley had yet to be intruded upon by the invaders. This was one of his most curious thoughts. This was the reason the deer stayed, and was major crop source. From their point of view, Eragon could not see how they would not one day come knocking on their creaky door and demand to purge the deer whenever they pleased. The only plausible explanation was that the men feared the range of mountains to the west of Palancar Valley. They were called Du Lefs Janear. What that meant Eragon had the slightest idea, but he was also told, as a child, that anyone who ventured into those mountains should be wary, for tales of odd occurrences and mysterious disappearances surrounded the name. If the men of Galbatorix's army believed such tales, Eragon had trouble comprehending why. He had gone hunting in them many times, almost always successful at catching at least a few rabbits. The abundance of edible vegetables, animals, and the breathtaking beauty would quell any doubts about the place's safety. Sure, predators lurked among the brush, hidden from all. But they were not to be feared, for they had learned that attacking humans was a dangerous thing to do.

Another thing that seemed odd to Eragon was how strong the soldiers that patrolled their village were. It would take a long three on one assault just to slay one. And even then one or two of the locals would find themselves on their deathbed. And how was Galbatorix able to assert such control over such a vast distance? From what he could gather, he resided nearly two-thousand kilometers south of this area of Alagaesia. Weren't there other leaders of strong, south eastern empires that could attack him and end this tyranny? Then again, the news of the south never truly reached the ears of those in the far north. Galbatorix may not have even struck at them. And why would they risk their own necks to save a bunch of farm workers with little skill and no use? Eragon hated to think like this, but it was the hard truth of life. No one helped anyone, and everyone minded their own business. These matters along with many other personal difficulties coursed inside his head, sounding louder than the deepest drum struck by the strongest blacksmith right next to his ear.

Eragon rolled open his right sleeve where the guard who he had been thinking about had slashed him. The bandages were a light red, as a result of trace amounts of blood oozing from the long gash. He had refused to drink any herbal tea that would help the scar heal, for he wanted to keep it as a memento to his defiance of being forced into servitude by men with power beyond the ordinary. The injury made it harder to bend his arm at his elbow, and it constantly opened up and started to bleed again and again. Even pulling anything that would otherwise take minimal effort made him feel the strain on his arm. He smiled at a memory that had crossed his mind. His younger brother, Murtagh, had pestered him with questions about what he had done to deserve this. He remembered gloomily how he had told him he had fought his way through the best soldiers of Galbatorix's army and beheaded the newly installed mayor of Carvahall. His younger brother marveled at his stories until their father had said to stop teasing him; you don't want him to want to like war do you?

A branch cracked in front of Eragon. He suddenly remembered why he was sitting at the edge of the hill in the thickest of dry grass that he could find. I nice mule deer, a buck, had reached the salt lick that Eragon's father used for the cattle. It was no less than one-hundred feet away. Slowly, he lay down on his stomach, the small pebbles on the ground stinging him through his jacket made of deer hide, which he had gotten made by the town tailor, Luna. He grabbed his bow and slid to a more desirable shooting position, and moved with the wind and grass into a kneeling position. His eyes lingered upon the massive antlers upon the deer's head. It had four half-foot tines on each antler. The majesty of such an animal was awe-inspiring. Lifting his arrow, he strung his bow, and pulled back as hard and quietly as he could with his mangled right arm. The injury spurted out a small bit of dry, hot blood. He then placed his aim right behind the shoulder of the deer, and took in a deep inhale. He closed his left eye, and then came the hunter's silence. For a score of heartbeats, the animal looked innocently in his direction, ears perked upward. Eragon looked right at the animal, and without moving at all, let the bow slip through his fingers. The metal-tipped piece of wood struck the deer exactly where Eragon had aimed it. The animal fell down instantly, got back up, and then did a standing fall. Its legs flailed for a few moments; the body was still alive. Then, with few more kicks, lay still upon the bloodied grass.

Eragon ran up to the large carcass. His body seemed oddly stiff after being in such an awkward position for over an hour. The rack's width was from one of his elbows to the other if his arms were outstretched. He grinned, pleased with his success. He had gone a week without catching more than a few rabbits, which was hardly enough to pay expenses for cattle feed, salt lick, and clothing. This deer would last the whole month. With the antlers, he could make new bed frames, tables, chairs, and all sorts of furniture. The fur would serve as a winter blanket. The hide could be made into clothing for his little brother, for he was growing fast. A few pieces of meat could be sold, while the rest his small family kept and stored for the winter in their large stockpile of supplies for "just in case" situations that may arise. He took out his hand-length hunting knife and began to clean and gut the animal. Within a half hour, he had removed all of the insides, save for the liver and heart, and began to haul the one-hundred pounds of dead weight back to his small cabin.

Despite his home leaking, rotting, and being cold, he would not trade it for anything else. Home was home, it could not be replaced. It took him another fifteen minutes to drag the deer up the hill and to his door that was falling off of its hinges. He banged his fist against the peeling wood once. A few moments later, a little boy opened the door. He had short, raven colored hair, and wide, innocent green eyes. His skin was pale, and he wore a similar shirt and trousers to Eragon. His shirt was thin and white, while his pants were thick and black. He had a long face that showed he yearned to know everything, like his older brother.

"Got something this time?" he asked mockingly. Eragon was too tired to smile, so he gave an abrupt, choked laugh.

"Help me drag it around back," he said in an exasperated voice. Together, they carefully pulled the animal around to the back of the house, where their father was finishing feeding the few chickens and goats they had. His face was etched with hard lines that came from decades of backbreaking labor. He wore a thick, grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up. His arms bore many bruises from fights. His trousers were the same as Eragon's and his younger brother's. His beard was a mix of black and grey, and he wore a sun hat to protect his face from the flies and the sun. He looked up. His eyes were a dull grey, and gave the feeling that he was devoid of any reason. His whole appearance gave the impression that he was a simple man that did not care, minded his own business, and worked for no one but him and his family.

"Good, you got something this time. Hang it up and skin it. I could use the fur to make some new gloves. These ones are getting ripped and worn." He lifted up his right hand, indicating the glove that looked like a decaying banana peel. He and his brother set to work, lifting up the animal on a nearby branch, skinning the hide, and bringing it inside. Their, they placed it in a large pot of boiling water, allowing the bacteria to melt off. After a few minutes, they removed the pelt and began to fashion gloves and other small materials out of a small section of the hide. It was about an hour before they finished and placed their newly made accessories near the fire to warm. Their work was elementary compared to the handwork of the town's knitters, but they would suffice.

Eragon examined his hands. They were covered in blood and hair. He stepped out the door, where he found his father still tending to the chickens and their small personal garden.

"I'm going to wash up in the waterfall," he said while passing him. His father gave him a not and grunted. "Grab some greens from their, will you? We need them unless you want to eat tasteless, raw meat." He passed Eragon a rusty bucket. "Fill that up with the vegetables, and with some cold water." Just then, Murtagh, his younger brother, came running out of the house, an excited expression on his face.

"Can I come too?" he begged in a pleading voice. He looked quickly from Eragon to their father, Garrow, who nodded in silent agreement. Filled with giddiness, his brother skipped down the hill to where Eragon's bow lay, offering to carry it and the bows. His excitement made Eragon feel older, as if he was watching a live memory. They traversed the vast distance of land, and reached the edge of the mountains. He noticed that the place where he usually entered had a few light footprints in them, but going in the opposite direction. He looked down in confusion, then took the bow from his brother and strung it with an arrow. He walked in cautiously, thinking that a soldier would pop out at them at any time, brandishing a gleaming blade, and demanding to know what they were doing here. The water source they were going to was a great secret, for they did not have to pay Galbatorix's army to use the well in the heart of Carvahall. He was not confident that he could even win any fight with one arrow and a bow. They slowly edged toward the small water fall, fear coursing in the air. Eragon remembered that the night previously, he had awoken in the middle of the night, hearing whooshing sounds and the cracking of falling trees. He had put them off as a dream.

They reached the small creek, where Murtagh filled up the bucket with various roots and fruits from the trees, while Eragon tried to rid the stains of blood on his hands and clothes. Just as he finished, he heard a small rustle twenty yards ahead of him. He could not see anything at this time of night, and passed it off as the wind. And then he heard something metal drop. He looked around, bow in hand, and saw his brother pointing at something.

A small creature, with four legs and shiny, golden scales approached him. It had two more limbs on its back that spread out two feet across, like wings. Eragon knelt down and examined the creature. He had not seen anything of its sort before. It had three claws on each foot, and one retractable claw on the outer part of the foot. The scales overlapped each other and gleamed like gold. It had a tail with a large spike on the end, like a club. On its face were whiskers and two golden eyes. Smoke emitted from the nostrils of the creature as it coughed, a slight growling noise. But the most intriguing aspect of the creature was a rich blue stone incrusted in its forhead. Inside it was another, lighter blue stone. Something swirled within the depths of that peculiar part of the creature. The layers of blue and turquoise and every other shade of that color thrummed inside the depths of the stone upon the creature's brow. In that instant, Eragon lost all sense of reason, all sense of right and wrong. He stared at the stone of blue, mesmerized by its astounding beauty and wisdom. And, without thinking, without hearing, without seeing, he reached out with his right hand and touched the blue stone with his palm.

In that instant, Eragon's mind left the immediate scene. In his mind, he saw thousands of people, bloodied and mangled, running around desperately. He saw to his left a dirtied river, full of crimson spots. A sea of blood seamed to be raining from the sky. Magnificent, unknown creatures with the most ravenous looks circled the ground, killing everything within reach. Above him soared a majestic golden creature, looking more powerful than the sun itself. Blood dripped from its underside. And there before him stood his younger brother, only a little older and less enthusiastic. And from his chest protruded a death-stained sword, so engulfed in blood that the true color of the blade was hard to see. The look on his brother's face was not of ease, but rather one of freedom.

With a start, Eragon fell to his knees, coming back to reality. His brother seemed troubled. "What is it?" he asked, concerned. Eragon remembered the scene so vividly that he could not bring himself to say it. "Just blacked out, I suppose." His brother did not seem to be convinced. Eragon then felt a burning sensation in his right palm. He looked at it. It was smoking. There was a large black mark, like soot from a fire that was slashed diagonally from right to left. He looked at it in wonder, considering how to get rid of it. But when he touched it, it didn't smudged. To the contrary, his hand felt as normal as before. The mark seemed to be imbued into his skin. He then realized what he had just touched, and looked up. The creature was still their, its eyes just as innocent as his Murtagh's. For some reason, Eragon felt a pull toward the creature, as if he should protect it as if it was family. The creature crept closer and lay on top of his lap. He suddenly felt a great rush of affection for the creature, as if he was all it had in the world. He was too immersed in his treatment of the creature that he failed to hear his brother let out a terrible wail.

He only realized that anything had happened after a few long seconds. He whirled around to see a figure immerge from where he had heard a "rustle" just a few moments ago. He instinctively reached for his bow and then stopped. Something was not letting him close his grip. Try as he might, he could not even open it any more. He was paralyzed. Only his eyes could move. He watched in silent terror as their attacker came towards them. She knelt beside Murtagh and put her hand over his stomach. With the greatest effort it had ever taken him, Eragon managed to turn his head to the left just enough to see the crimson patch on his brother's chest. His horror at the sight would have left him motionless even if he wasn't frozen in place by some sort of supernatural power. He saw that the attacker was a girl of his height, with hip length, wavy red hair, and sleek eyes and pointed ears. She looked like a cat-human hybrid almost. She looked at Eragon, and, with a swift, graceful movement, struck him on the temple with her hand. The blow was much greater than Eragon had braced himself for, and he was sent rolling for several yards. He could move now, but it took him a few seconds to regain his composure after such a devastating strike. His sight was dimming, though he could still think slowly. He saw a flash of white light over Murtagh's body, and then his brother shuddered and went limp. Eragon began to get up but the blow had taken its toll. His knees buckled and he fell flat on his stomach. The woman then walked over to him, and with a kick that would normally do no more than give a little sting, knocked him unconscious. For a split second, he saw the golden creature writher in pain with him, as if they were one. And then he passed into the deep sleep, seeing last the woman kneeling over him, the stars glistening behind her.


	3. Rude Awakenings

_**THE DRAGON RIDERS**_

_**CHAPTER 3: RUDE AWAKENINGS**_

Eragon stirred feebly, feeling a pleasant warmth beside him. His head felt as if someone was trying to smash it open from the inside. He opened his eyes half way, studying his surroundings. He was deep in the forest, or so he thought, due to the many pine trees and small bushes encircling him. He lolled his head in a circle, searching for the source of the heat he felt. A small campfire was lit a few feet from him, and across it he saw a woman, a young looking woman, with red hair and glassy blue eyes, studying a large piece of parchment. With a sudden flash, Eragon remembered what had happened. His head throbbed as he relived the punch and kick the stranger had delivered to his head, and how he had seen his brother's bloodied body upon the ground. His mind began to work a little faster, although it was hard to focus with the dull pain in his head. He did not stir anymore, and closed his eyes, becoming much more conscious of his breathing. He knew that he probably couldn't run away from his assailant, for if she could knock him out with two effortless blows, she could probably overtake him when he had such a huge pain in his head. Eragon opened his eyes again, looking at the woman with more intensity.  
Her eyelashes were thin and slanted, her ears slightly pointed at the tips, and her jaw was a little longer than most of the people he had encountered in his days. Her fingers were long and bony, as were her arms. Her skin had the slightest red tinge to it, despite her pale demeanor. Her other features otherwise looked entirely normal. She wore a brown travelling cloak, and her blue eyes were fixed on scanning the large parchment in front of her. 

Eragon thought desperately of how to get away. If he made any quick movements, the woman was sure to look up. He looked in the opposite direction. There was an endless maze of trees and grass on the ground. On top of that, Eragon did not know where he was, or for how long he had been blacked out. He then realized he was wrapped in thick blankets and cloth to keep him warm. This confused Eragon. If the mysterious woman had meant to take him hostage or kill him, why keep him in such a condition. He could not feel any cuts or bruises on his body either. _She doesn't want to hurt me, I think. She wants to take me somewhere, perhaps as a prisoner. But what could I bring? My family is as poor as anyone could get. What do I have that she wants?  
_With another flash of memory, Eragon remembered the small, strange, golden, six-limbed creature. He remembered what he had seen when he had touched the paralyzing blue stone. 

_That has to be it, _thought Eragon. _That must have been significant in some way._ He then noticed through a cracked eye-lid that the woman with strange features had turned around and began to walk away. Before she left, however, she waved her hand around the fire, saying "Skolroko abn finduro." The flames beside Eragon became a lot livelier, and began to wave more violently with the wind. The woman disappeared into the darkness beyond. 

Eragon's mind raced. What kind of dark art was that? He was sure he could feel something travel through the air towards the flames, like a great rush of energy. He sat up now, thoroughly confused and afraid. He decided then and there to run, for it was his only chance. He slowly got up and edged carefully away from the fire, the blankets still wrapped around him. When he was a safe distance away, he dropped the many layers of warmth and bolted into the unknown. 

As he ran, he still could not fathom what the woman had done. He was absolutely sure that he had felt something dark when she had muttered those incomprehensible words. Eragon ran as fast as he could, ignoring the protest of his body to exert so much energy after laying peacefully sound asleep for that long. As he ran, he looked around for a high spot where he could examine his surroundings. He eventually found one; a large rock that looked out over the valley on the other side. As Eragon reached it, his heart leapt. He had could not have been out for that long. A few kilometers to the south was the town of Yazuac. He remembered the weeks where he and Garrow would travel down to the city to trade items with fellow merchants. He could easily traverse that distance within an hour, maybe even less. With a feeling of defiance and hope, the same feeling he had when he had snuck into the mayor's office at Carvahall, he skipped down the steep path, running with all his might. But then he remembered that his home was to the north, not too far away. _No, _thought Eragon. _I can't endanger their lives by going back their. This person wants me, and she'll even kill my family to get to me. _Again Eragon's mind reminisced about Murtagh's crimson body on the ground near the watering hole. Eragon felt disgusted with himself for bringing his brother with him. _I'll never come back home again, I can't.  
_

Within fifteen minutes, Eragon had managed to half the distance between him and the city, tears streaming down his eyes. He felt, however, alone. It was not because of the daunting prospect of just leaving his father with two missing children, one possibly dead without knowledge of the other. No, it was a different feeling, having nothing to do with them. There was some part of him missing, something inside him that he loathed being without. He had never felt like this before. And again his mind turned to the golden creature, and the feeling in the pit of his stomach seemed to ease. The very thought of the creature made Eragon smile for reason's he did not know. He even remembered how he had felt towards it after he had grazed its head. Eragon looked down at his right palm. The black slash was still there. He fingered it, and it did not smudge this time either. His pace slowed to a trot, then to a standstill. How could he abandon the creature? Eragon did not have the faintest idea why he felt such a strong pull towards it. For a few moments, Eragon's head went slightly crazy, and he considered going back for the creature, even though he did not see it at the campfire. He came back to his senses after realizing what might happen if his captor found him running away. He shuddered at the thought.  
Eragon suddenly realized that he still had to march on, despite how his heart raged with anger. He began to start to run again when he felt something within his head. It was a foreign feeling, not his own. He could feel it like a real person as it searched his memories. Eragon was too shocked to even try to run. The thing inside his head suddenly became angry as it located the thoughts and memories of Eragon trying to run away. Suddenly, Eragon was immobilized, just like he had been when at the watering hole. He could not move no matter how hard he tried, and eventually fell to his side, rigid as a statue. The feeling in his mind searched farther in his memories, farther than Eragon himself could remember. The thing processed information so quickly that Eragon at times didn't know what he was seeing, even though it was inside his own brain. The last thing he saw was a face. It was a man. The person was young, maybe in his thirties. He had jet black hair, round, dark, deep black eyes, and a serpentine tattoo on his neck. The person's face was hard, unforgiving, and seemed to have hatred in its features. With that, the foreign feeling in his head had vanished. 

Eragon was so confused, shocked, and afraid that he just wanted to run and not look back. But he couldn't. He did not have the strength to resist the power that was compelling him to stay still. After a few minutes, he heard soft footsteps running through the grass. Eragon stared with silent terror at the woman who had captured him. Despite her obvious anger, for her eyebrows were slanted downwards, her face seemed calm and welcoming. She lifted Eragon up with ease to his feet. Eragon felt the thing immobilizing him disappear. 

"Walk, and please don't try to run away, for I do not wish to hurt you." said the woman. Her voice was very pleasing to listen to, almost lyrical. It sounded so beautiful that Eragon took a moment to respond. "Yes, of course." For a split second, the fear in him had subsided. But then he remembered the feeling of loneliness that had engulfed him a few moments ago, and that he had decided not to return to his family, that something strange had happened inside his head, and that the woman had been able to will the fire to do something extraordinary. He followed slowly, prepared for the woman to strike at him. They walked in silence for the entire walk back to the campfire, which seemed to take a painfully long while. 

When they finally did reach the place, Eragon was too dumbstruck to say anything. This woman had been able to knock him unconscious and kill his brother and drag him all the way to Yazuac in the forest. She could even make inanimate objects do her wont, like the fire. Eragon sat there for a long while, shivering from fear at what might happen next. Then, thinking about his dead brother, he summoned the courage to speak. She had killed Murtagh, and she had to answer him. Sorrow welled up within Eragon's heart as he thought of his brother gingerly picking up his bow and running with him to the watering hole. Tears blurred his vision. 

"What did you do to my brother?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. The woman looked up. "I healed him. Do not worry; he is not injured too severely. But I had to leave enough of a bruise and a few broken ribs so no suspicion would arise. He is probably resting in his bed right now with his and your father. Garrow is his name, yes?" Understanding dawned upon Eragon. "That, that thing inside my head was you." Fear crept up the nape of his neck, making his hairs stand on end. The woman sighed. "Yes, it was me, and it was also I who immobilized you." 

"But, but how? That's impossible. You cannot make me do what you want. And what did you do to the fire?" The woman smiled. From within the depths of the many folds of her cloak, she pulled out a small pouch, and from it, pulled out the small golden creature. Eragon gasped, and without thinking, lunged for it. The woman stopped him with her hand. Her strength was amazing, thought Eragon. She pushed him back "You have become very special, Eragon." He began to speak, but the woman said quietly "Treyka." Eragon fell silent at once, immobilized once again. "You wonder how I entered your mind, and how I control you, and how I know all these things about you. Well, listen, and you shall receive your answers." She blinked once, took a deep breath, and began. 

"This creature," she gestured at the golden creature, "is a dragon. That is right, a dragon. They are not myths created by old nut jobs, _they_ _are real_. This one has chosen you to be its rider. That black gash on your right hand is called a Gedwey Ignasia. It is the mark that symbolizes the pairing between a dragon and a rider. You are now a Dragon Rider. The Riders are expected to be the mightiest warriors in the land, and also to be scholars, teachers, healers, and peacekeepers. A Rider never raises an arm against another in the act of intentionally inflicting some sort of distress. The order of the Riders has existed for thousands of years, and it is with the power and wisdom of the dragons that they became exceptionally powerful. The bond between Rider and dragon is as sacred as any religion or belief, for it has extreme realistic complications. The bond was originally forged by the elves of Du Weldenvarden after the two races met many years ago. The natural power of dragons coupled with the capabilities of the elves proved to be formidable. They originally formed the pact to fight a common enemy. There was a group of creatures, all controlled by a demon overlord, who ravaged Alagaesia, purging the land and casting a great shadow over everyone. The sun itself may have been blocked out. It was here that the two greatest races forged a bond so powerful that they could defeat the demons. The elves had the intelligence and the super senses, and the dragons had immense power, wisdom, and magical capabilities. That's right, magic. That is how I stopped you from moving. The elves were already spell casters, but were no match for the demon lord's slaves. The dragons enhanced the power of the elves, and, coupled with their already immense power, became the most formidable force in Alagaesia. Only a select few became Riders, though, ones who had certain traits and characteristics that drew the dragon to them. Still, the Legion, as the army of the demon lord was called, was a great force, and was not going to go down without a fight. History does not have many facts about how the Legion came to be, or how the Riders vanquished them, for it would take a tremendous amount of energy to perform such a task, along with the complex rituals and magic. Because of this great spell, the energy that is needed to sustain it still leeches off the land and all living things today, even you and I. The power of the elves and the dragons has withered somewhat compared to their former might, but they are still the fiercest races in all of Alagaesia. The order of the Riders was also nearly obliterated, along with the dragon race. But there was one Rider who understood so much more than the others. His name was Morthngal, the very first Dragon Rider. He looked beyond what he saw, and exploited the weaknesses of the entire Legion. He managed to eliminate some of the most powerful servants of the demon overlord, and he was eventually the one to kill the lord himself. The only fact about how he performed the killing was that he had to sacrifice himself to bring the demon lord back down to the fiery depths of hell. Other than that, no one knows truly what happened on that fateful day. With their leader and most trusted and educated of their order gone, the Riders then established a Council of Elders. This council consists of the three oldest Riders of the current order. For the next few thousand years, the land enjoyed the greatest age of all, with no war, prosperity everywhere, and none to defy the power of their rightful gods, the Dragon Riders. Nothing was powerful enough to defeat, them, nothing except one of their own." 

The woman's face became troubled now, as if she was thinking about something that caused her pain. "It had been over many centuries since the Riders had been truly threatened by any force. No matter what problem had arisen, they could always, together, eliminate it. But they failed to keep their guard up. When one of their own, you may know his name, _Galbatorix-" _The word came off her mouth with disgust, for it seemed she did not even want to mention the traitor's name. "- had finished his first section in training, and had moved up in the ranks of the Riders as a Thor'gual, a rank that gave him the power to travel anywhere he wanted without repercussions, he travelled into the mountain range we are in now, called Du Lefs Janear, which translated into your tongue is The Hills of Death. Throughout the years, the Riders had forgotten what lay in these mountains; spirits, spirits of great power and evil. One should never enter too deeply into these mountains, for they would join the spirits and be enslaved for eternity. He travelled as far north as one should dare travel in Du Lefs Janear. When he reached the northern tip of the mountains, he found something; at least, that is what accounts of his travels can give us. What exactly that was, only the leader Council of Elders knows, and he loathes parting with such powerful secrets. He has only told a select few, among them Queen Islanzadi of the elves, and one other elf. There, Galbatorix lost his dragon, Jarnunvosk, most likely while trying to fend off the spirits that possess the land in that area. He went mad, for he had felt a living death. You remember, Eragon, how you felt when you were trying to escape, that feeling of being engulfed in darkness, of being alone, of wanting to turn back, abandon everything just to see the dragon again. That is why I was able to catch you, for if you ran for another minute or so, it would have taken me many hours to track you down if I did not guess the right path you had taken. Now, imagine if the dragon had died. You feel all the pain and joy your dragon does, as it feels all your pain and joy. You saw how it screeched in pain when I kicked you in the temple. Your thoughts are his, as his are yours. The bond intertwines your fates so tightly that the free exchange of thoughts and emotions, of feelings and hurts, and of every other want and need is constantly passed back and forth between you two. Now imagine if you lost such a part of yourself, after having many decades to share your life with another that was not another. Galbatorix went mad, and became exceedingly dangerous. Because of this, he returned a few months later to the Riders stronghold. There, he sought the Council of Elders, and begged for another dragon, for he wished he had another to share in his sorrow, for the grief overwhelmed him to such a degree that he could not contain himself on his own. The Elders refused his request, for they said that such an ignorant Rider that had been taught for almost thirty years had made such a grave mistake did not deserve another partner-in-life. They would not force a dragon into servitude, for it takes uncommon skill to make a dragon submit. Even if the dragon was favorable to Galbatorix, the Elders cast a spell, banishing him from becoming a true Rider once again. But the spell only prevented him from once again becoming a _true Rider._ He stole a dragon egg from the nesting place of the dragons, which he was able to do despite his flaws, for the dragons trusted him as much as they would any Rider, for the dragons who had lost their Riders and still lived sympathized with him. The rage in his heart gave him two paths, the two paths that automatically present themselves to any dragon or Rider that loses the other half of their soul. Either commit suicide, or suffer in silence and perform many acts of revenge. Galbatorix chose the latter. The dragons entrusted him with one of their eggs to give to the Council, which he accepted graciously. Instead of travelling to the ancient grounds of the Riders stronghold, he took a different path. He went back to the site of his first dragons death, and there, waited for the dragon to hatch. When it did, he most likely attempted to touch the stone incrusted in its head, but was unable to. Only the dragons true Rider, the one it deems worthy, is able to touch it." 

"The magical implications forced Galbatorix not to lay a finger upon the stone. When he couldn't, as he probably expected, he performed some sort of ceremony and forced the dragon into servitude, which I previously said takes many arduous hours of great magical skill. What he did exactly remains a mystery, although the Council of Elders has most likely been able to deduce what he had done. It took almost a whole month before the Riders realized what Galbatorix had done. From their, they sent three of their order to search and destroy Galbatorix. They split up, each going to certain areas that he may be hidden. One travelled to the sight of Jarnunvosk's death. Their, he met Galbatorix, who engaged him in fierce battle. Galbatorix had been able to build his power up over the weeks, and was able to overwhelm Valengur and his dragon, Inglvard. Before he broke them, he stole the vast reserves of energy they had as well. With that power, he travelled south, gathering about him a group of twelve loyal minions. He sent them out as scouts and undercover agents. With them, he was able to steal large amounts of stored energy. Any magician may be able to store their energy in any sort of ancient form of rock, like a gemstone or a diamond. With even more power, he defeated the second Rider named Kialandi, and her dragon Mundrath. With such vast energy, he easily killed the last Rider, who was the weakest and least experienced. His name was Hortall, and his dragon's name was Firundra." 

"With three of the Rider's order gone, Galbatorix quietly assembled an army through his twelve minions and attacked some small cities, sacking the town and building up an army. Soon, he controlled the entire northwestern section of Alagaesia. The Council of Elders had underestimated Galbatorix's power and knowledge, for he had experimented with new kinds of magic he had discovered in nature. They had only sent one Rider, a Thor'gual as well, Bertrive, with his dragon Kolbant. He was an extremely able warrior, and he led an army three thousand strong to invade the Empire of Galbatorix. The army was still not able to overwhelm Galbatorix's, whose warriors had uncommon skill, power, and magical capabilities, no doubt that Galbatorix had bestowed upon them using his knowledge of dark magic. It had been an invasion planned for a whole month, so Galbatorix was able to once again build up his power through unknown means, and set out to a one on one meeting. Along with Bertrive, there were seven other Dragon Riders, four of whom were young by the standards of Riders. The Council of Elders would not leave to fight unless their enemy proved to be a great foe. Since they had not had one in living memory, they could not believe that they were being overthrown. When Bertrive was battling with Galbatorix, his dragon was killed by the one Galbatorix had forced into servitude. Despite it being only a few months old, Galbatorix had increased his growth at a rapid rate, and placed many enchantments that leeched off the energy of its surroundings. With such dark magical protection, an experienced and well-trained dragon like Kobalt was unprepared for such a fight, and was caught napping when Shruikan, the name of Galbatorix's slave dragon, bit her head and twisted it, breaking her neck. The loss of his dragon shocked Bertrive so much, that he froze in mid combat. Given a few more minutes, he probably would have overwhelmed Galbatorix, but alas, he did not have such a stroke of luck. Galbatorix took advantage, for he knew that the rage in Bertrive's heart would allow him to immediately kill Galbatorix. He lopped off his head, and declared himself king of Alagaesia, for he had been able to defeat four of the mightiest warriors, the Dragon Riders, on his own." 

"The Elders realized that they would have to send one of their own to topple the self-proclaimed king, so they sent second-in-command Rider Felwin, and his dragon, Leatran. They could match Galbatorix's knowledge and power, even exceed it. In the process of killing off the four Riders, Galbatorix had expanded his grip on the empire as far south as Dras Leonna and Uru'baen. He even sent small cavalries to raid the shipping cities of Teirm and Narda, which gave him substantial amounts of royalties to hire mercenaries. With his power, he even managed to infiltrate the levels of government in Surda. With no threat from the south or the west, Galbatorix assembled his forces, readying himself for a great battle. When Felwing arrived at the gates of Uru'baen with an army over ten-thousand strong, all of the soldiers bestowed with magical energy, he sought out Galbatorix, and asked him why he had committed such treason. He simply replied that the thirst for his revenge could never be quenched, and the only way to relieve his sorrow was to alleviate it by making others suffer as much as he did. With that, he engaged, mind and body, with Felwin. Unlike before, Felwin proved to be too great an adversary for Galbatorix. His mind was much stronger, his knowledge astounding, and prodigious skill in swordsmanship and magic proved to be more than Galbatorix could chew. But again, the matter of dragons arose. Unlike Felwin and Leatran, or Valengur and Inglvard, or Bertrive and Kobalt, or the other Riders he had defeated, he was not mentally linked with Shruikan. He did not feel his pain or his suffering, and exchanged his thoughts with him only when Galbatorix consented to. Felwin constantly felt jolts of pain through Leatran, and it was then that he decided to fight upon his dragon's back. Together, they could both obliterate Galbatorix and free Shruikan. Eventually, Felwin joined Leatran, as Galbatorix did with Shruikan. The slave dragon's inexperience was a great flaw, as with his master. Within minutes, Felwin disarmed the ex-Rider, and was about to finish the job when something strange happened. Three golden orbs from within Shruikan spurted from his mouth, and sped towards Felwin. He did his best to fight off the objects, but they drew blood wherever they met skin, and burned like the greatest fire. With Felwin distracted and weakened, Galbatorix once again proved his superior intellect by stabbing one of the greatest Riders through the heart. When this happened, Leatran used an inexplicable amount of energy to blow away the burning orbs, and sought out to tear Galbatorix limb from limb for destroying his soul. But with rage comes misjudgment, even with the oldest and wisest; once again, Shruikan was able to elude death and, with Galbatorix's help, slowly tortured the great dragon into defeat. Galbatorix struck the final blow, cracking the stone in Leatran's head, which is a very rare feat, for the hardness of the stone is unmatched by any diamond or gem." 

"With this great victory, he had eliminated five of the twelve Riders and their dragons at the time. Knowing the power he possessed, the leader of the Riders, Vrael, retreated along with the remaining four Riders, moving the stronghold of the Riders deep within the forest of Du Weldenvarden, where it is beyond Galbatorix's reach. Since then, we have been able to produce one dragon egg, a golden one, which hatched but a few weeks ago. A dragon only hatches when the name of its Rider is uttered, which is discovered by an ancient ritual performed by a Shaman, a dark form of spell caster. I managed to track you down, and the rest you know. That is why I had to do what I did. Galbatorix would have felt the warping in the world when your hand was placed upon your dragon's stone, and would have sent his guards to capture you and bring you to him, so you could be enslaved until the end of time. I do not think you would have come peacefully, in fact, I know. I used telepathy to enter your mind and see if you had experienced any sort of odd behavior. I am sorry if I intruded upon memories that were private, but it was necessary. And I apologize for hitting you twice with such force, but again, it needed to be done. Now, you must travel with me to the elf capital of Ellesmera, where your training will commence. I know you did not ask for this, for I know you probably do not want to abandon the life you've known for fifteen years to serve under the rule of others, trying to bring down the most powerful enemy this land has seen since the Legion, but it is your duty. Including you, there are seven Riders, excluding Galbatorix. Despite what looks like favorable odds, his army has grown large, as many people have joined the empire out of fear and hopelessness. Not many openly oppose the king, except for a rebel group based in the dwarves mountains, who are solely dedicated to overthrowing the king, although they have little to no chance of doing so without the help of the Riders, elves, dwarves, humans, and everyone willing to help. That includes you, Eragon. You _must _do this, for the sake of all of Alagaesia, so we can finally end this tyranny. You hated how his soldiers invaded your village; now imagine that on a much larger scale. It would be horrible. Together, the races of Alagaesia may yet be able to overcome the odds and defeat Galbatorix. But there is little time, and we cannot spend decades training you, for it still won't be enough. Remember this, though. You can never return to your family, for the king's soldiers will be there, ready for an ambush. Your brother Murtagh will be fine, and so will your father, Garrow. But the choice is yours. Either stay here and risk capture, or join the legendary ranks of the Dragon Riders, and restore this land to peace and exact revenge on that oath-breaker Galbatorix. What will it be, Eragon Garrowsson?" 

Eragon had listened the whole while with hysterical expression upon his face. It was too much to take in. He had often heard tales of Dragon Riders and of Galbatorix before, but he never imagined for once that they were real. _This is happening too fast_. His heart raced, his mind went numb. The amount of information he had just received was too much to comprehend. He floundered for a few moments, and then thought about what he had just heard. _It has to be true. How else would Galbatorix's soldiers be able to kill fifty men when they were outnumbered over two to one? And now I must become one of these Dragon Riders. I am not a killer, and I'm still not even a man yet. I can't be of any use to them, at least, not right now. And what of my family? Given what has happened, I can return to them, but without the dragon, and I won't do that. I'd hate to tear myself in half like that. No, this woman is right. I have to never return, and never tell my father what has happened until Galbatorix is dead. Still, can I trust this person? She doesn't even look human to me?_ Finally speaking, he said "I, I will accept. But tell me, why should I trust you?" 

The woman glared at him for a full five seconds. "Atra reyana de jo felio. That means, I mean you no harm. I spoke in the Ancient Language, the language of truth and magic. All spells must be performed in that tongue. One cannot knowingly lie in this language. For example, you should try 'Gi hath ono kona.' It means I am a girl. Try to say it, you won't be able to. Eragon repeated the phrase, but could not utter the final word. Try as he might, he choked upon the word, and could not force it out of his mouth. Amazed, Eragon conceded. He trusted that this woman meant no harm, even though he was not entirely sure that the phrase 'Atra reyana de jo felio' meant I mean you no harm. Her facial features along with her piercing blue eyes gave her a ferocious yet tender demeanor. She was beautiful in a terrible, exotic kind of why. He gazed at her, hunger in his eyes, and then found himself again. He asked "Can I perform magic as well now that I am a Rider?" He could not contain the eagerness from his voice.

The woman looked at him so sternly that he cowered under her gaze. "Yes, you can. But if would unwise for you to attempt it. Real magic is not like the tales you've probably heard in your village. You do not know its limitations, or how to even cast a spell. You have no knowledge of the Ancient Language, and therefore cannot perform any kind of magic. You also have to have the physical energy to sustain a spell that you cast. If you attempt to make a fifty foot tall tree rise in the air, you must have the actual energy within yourself to execute such a feat. If you try to do something with magic that you are not capable of doing through normal means, you will die from pouring all your energy into the spell. So do not try to use magic with the few words that you know. It is dangerous if you do not know how to stem the flow of energy. I will escort you eastward to Ellesmera during the next few weeks, and during those travels I will teach you basic skills with swords and magic. I know from your memories that you are quite familiar with a bow, so I would advise you to carry one at all times. For now, you must rest, so you can regain your energy for the morning."

The woman turned around, when a very simple question occurred to Eragon. "What is your name?" She stopped and looked back, her eyes hard, her face intensified. "Arya, Arya Svit-kona." Eragon thought for another second or two, and then made a bold move. "You're not human." It was a statement, not a question. She looked even more cold and distant than before, but still her voice was lyrical and soothing. Suddenly Eragon noticed the slanted eyebrows, the pointed ears, the long face, the bony fingers, and the thin neck. He felt a something rumble in his stomach. "No, I'm not one of your kind. I am an elf of Du Weldenvarden, although I am not like the other members of my race. I have been travelling Alagaesia for many years, being the ambassador and messenger of the elves. It is I who relays messages between the humans, dwarves, and elves, and it is I who connect the three races together. It is hard work being away from home, but it is necessary work. Because I am an elf, it is why I am entrusted with the secrets of the Riders and their ancient stories. And it is why I had the strength to overtake you, and knock you unconscious. It is also why I am able to perform telepathy and magic."

Eragon was in deep awe of this woman, no, this _elf_, named Arya. Her beauty, knowledge, and power astounded him. _Are all elves like this, _he wondered. _Imagine the power. And if they, with their numbers, for the have been in this country for thousands of years, isn't enough, along with the Riders, to defeat Galbatorix, what use is a fifteen year old farm boy from Carvahall. Then again, it is my duty, if I understood what Arya said, and I have only one path ahead of me._ "I will cooperate with you and do what you say, for I trust you." Arya's pose diminished somewhat, as she relaxed her flexed muscles. "Good, good. Now, please, get some rest. I can see the look on your face, it answers for you."

With that, she lay down in her small cot, closing her eyes and turning away from Eragon, who still had a hundred questions still pestering him. With reluctance, he lay down on the mat he had vacated about hour earlier, slipping into the land of dreams, his mind buzzing with the things he had just heard. But still, the elf, Arya, kept cropping up in his mind. He eventually fell asleep, with his last vision being seeing the elf kneeling over him with the stars glistening behind her, which was the last thing he had seen before she had knocked him unconscious.

_And there he was, on a battle field.__ He saw thousands of people, bloodied and mangled, running around desperately. He saw to his left a dirtied river, full of crimson spots. A sea of blood seemed to be raining from the sky. Magnificent, unknown creatures with the most ravenous looks circled the ground, killing everything within reach. Above him soared a majestic golden creature, looking more powerful than the sun itself. Blood dripped from its underside. And there before him stood his younger brother, only a little older and less enthusiastic. And from his chest protruded a death-stained sword, so engulfed in blood that the true color of the blade was hard to see. The look on his brother's face was not of unease, but rather one of freedom. And he fell into the darkness, the most peaceful expression upon his bruised and scarred face._


	4. Interrupted Travels

_**THE DRAGON RIDERS**_

_**CHAPTER FOUR: INTERRUPTED TRAVELS**_

Eragon stirred slightly as he woke. He sat up absent-mindedly, rubbing his face wearily with feeble hands. His eyes felt as if a bright light was being shone into them directly, for he had only enjoyed a few hours of restless sleep. The sharp throbbing in his head had resided to a dull ache, feeling like a person was lightly driving their knuckle into his temple. For a few peaceful moments, he sat there, not thinking of where he was and what had happened to him over the past sixteen hours or so. But then it dawned on him, and an ache similar to the one in his head formed inside of his chest. He thought of Murtagh, and of Garrow, and of the six-limbed creature, the dragon that had brought all of this upon him. His mind worked slowly no matter how fast Eragon had tried to speed up his train of thoughts. And then his thoughts came to the elf named Arya, remembering her pale, red-tinted features, her slanted eyebrows, her long, thin neck and jaw, her thin arms, and her red hair that seemed to flow with nature itself. The thought of the elf's characteristics warmed his insides and helped subdue the ache in his chest. Eragon began to open his eyes but clutched at them when the rays of the sun, that had set over Palancar Valley for fifteen years, illuminating life itself, clawed at his watery eyes. He began to stand up when he realized the weakness in his body. He had just woken up. How could he expect to start running like a mad man?

Suddenly, a great surge of energy rushed into Eragon, coursing through his blood, all the way from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It felt as if a great gust of wind had swept through his very soul. His muscles flexed slightly, his tremors stilling, and the pain in his eyes had vanished. He opened them finally, welcoming the day, feeling that he could run a hundred kilometers if he wanted to. There sat before him was the elf, a compassionate smile touching her animalistic features. Eragon allowed himself a smile as well, though for reasons he was not entirely sure about. The swimming blue eyes held him in place, for he was transfixed this feature of the elf more than any other. Finally she said "We must get going. I had planted some supplies on the way to your home, so that we may make use of it on the way back. Galbatorix won't know yet of a knew Rider, and we best make our dash for Ellesmera while he is oblivious to you and me. Still, he has many military outposts stationed throughout the Empire, and it would be best to stay out of sight for the day. Being this far north and close to Du Weldenvarden, we shouldn't encounter any, but he has been known to send small parties of twenty or so to check up on the activities of the peoples of this section of Alagaesia. Those people would be the Wandering Tribes, a nomadic group who travel to the most dangerous and desolate lands of Alagaesia, seeking out a better life. Their ancient family roots, however, prevent them from pursuing the life they love; travelling. Still, they would not bother us, and I think if we are smart and quick, we should reach Du Weldenvarden in at least four weeks. But once we are within the trees of Du Weldenvarden, we shall not fear any sort of attack, for the elves are the only race that will not betray one another for personal gains, especially within our own race. But you will understand that in due course. Let us ride. I had arranged during my venture to Palancar Valley that two horses would remain for us in this spot. They were bound by magic, so they should still be here and well." She got up and turned around, resuming to read something that she had apparently been previously immersed in. Eragon let his gaze linger over her before he caught himself and began to fold up the blankets.

Eragon surveyed where they were. He had not really studied his surroundings intensely when he had been up but a few hours ago. He now saw young trees with light bark encircling their encampment. The leaves had begun to adopt the traditional colors of red, yellow, and orange and every other shade of those colors. Small bits of ashes had flew out into the trees, giving them a burnt demeanor. A few vibrant leaves flew from a branch to his right, scattering about as a fairly large, gleaming animal had jumped from the trees. He only got a glimpse of it. Directly to his right was a small break in the forest, through which expanded an endless array of varying colors and shrubs, along with dried grass and trampled, cracked, fallen trees. Through that opening he saw a small, green leaf fall lightly with the wind, as if it was a true part of the world. It slowly set onto the ground. It thrummed with life, even though Eragon knew it was dead. Within the depths of that leaf he saw himself somehow, his mind going blank as it had when he had touched the golden dragon's stone. What he saw, though, was not a person, but rather feelings; feelings of loneliness, sadness, lifelessness, and many other sobering and depressing facts. The falling leaf seemed to represent the passing of a life, a very unhappy and hard life, where one had lost all and yet still owed all. The thoughts made Eragon's eyes water. He quickly came back to reality, trying to forget the weight of the emotions on that leaf. He flinched as a small trinket of cotton from the trees fell on his shoulder. He examined the waving thread of silk, admiring it. He looked up finally. The exuberant colors of the trees seemed to resonate with nature, a life-like heart beating within them. The light glimmered with the colors of the forest. casting glints of green and red specs throughout the floor of their campsite. The beauty was so astounding that unexpected emotion clogged Eragon's chest. He regretfully let his eyes wander down ward to his bed and began to re-organize.

Within the next half hour, he had packed the sleeping materials, pots, forks and knives, and various pouches into a few leather, ragged looking packs. Arya, on the other hand, had left him alone to do the work, going down the path they had travelled, covering their tracks and murmuring inaudible words as she walked. Eragon allowed this temporary solitude to reexamine his thoughts. He was one of the legendary Dragon Riders, this person, no, this elf that had attacked him was actually a friend, and that Galbatorix had managed to eliminate five Riders through dark and twisted magic. He trusted Arya, though, no matter how many doubts scurried in his head. She said in the Ancient Langauge that she meant him no harm, and that one could not lie in that language, as Eragon had found out. He still had many questions, though, about the Riders, Galbatorix, the mysterious rebel group known as the Varden, and above all, the dwarves. Tales of elves were common in Carvahall, for they were neighbors to the east in past centuries. But the dwarves had always remained in the south; where they resided Eragon had no idea in the slightest. The only object that he could associate with the dwarves was the word stone, but he only recalled it vaguely, as if it was distant land that he had heard passively. Eragon sat down, wondering about all of this. It was too much to take in so suddenly. He had always wanted to know more, but this much at one time was a daunting prospect. All the while, Eragon wondered in confusion; he was a stranger in an unknown world. All the while, though, he heard faint whispers in his mind, humming their own thoughts and feelings like a sentient being. The presence was not as foreign as Arya's had been when she had ravaged his mind so brutally, but rather familiar and comforting, yet independent but not entirely individual.

He jumped with a start as he heard the trotting of horses. Eragon froze. Arya had warned of Galbatorix's roving cavalries and military stations. He stared at the spot, fear and anger holding him in place. From the thick brush emerged Arya pulling to steeds along with her. Eragon felt the muscles in his brow relax, the sweat on his face go dry. "Here you go," she said lightly, handing him the reigns to one of the horses with an odd grace. Eragon marvelled at the steed. He had never owned nor ridden one before, or even patted one. He tentatively patted it on the neck, smiling at the feel of owning a horse, at least temporarily. Arya continued. "Put your bags in the packs in the saddle, and let us ride." He made haste and began to pack everything in, and, for the first time in his life, sat upon a tamed horse. He felt a great sense of power inside him, although such a normal experience would not arouse the slightest desire in people of normal wealth. He looked over at Arya, asking "Which way is it to your homeland? All I know is that it is that it takes up the northern chunk of Alagaesia." Arya smiled, her razor like teeth glinting with the suns brightness. Eragon blinked. "You are correct. But do not fret, I shall lead the way. It isn't going to be difficult to get there, and you shall keep me entertained with the hundreds of questions that are hammering your head. I can almost feel the confusion seeping out of you." She began to ride, beckoning him to join her side.

They travelled at a gentle pace, roughly thirty kilometers an hour by Eragon's judgement, although he did not have many teachings in numbers other than basic tutoring by Garrow. Eragon frowned as he thought what his father would say and think when his older son had abandoned his younger brother in such a state. Eragon pushed the poisonous thought from his mind, and, attempting to purge all of his homesickness, he began to pester Arya with questions. He asked first the one that mattered most to him. "Where is the dragon?" He could not conceal the concern on his face. Arya smiled and pointed behind him. He whirled his head around, scanning the path. There it was, a small dragon not much bigger than the dog his brother owned in secret. Its scales glimmered with the sunlight, like the trees had. It yawned, opening its jaws a foot wide, exposing clear white fangs and a red tongue. The teeth sent a shiver down Eragon's spine, thinking of the horror that the dragon could cause if it grew to a great size. He looked at it more intensely, noticing the molten eyes, wide with wisdom and ferociousness. Its pupils studied Eragon like a predator does before it pounces. Eragon noticed as well the blue stone incrusted in its brow, still glinting with all of the shades of blue, shimmering like water. Eragon did not fall into a trance this time, but he was still absorbed in the colors of the stone, and how they contrasted with the dragons golden scales. Noticing him, Arya said "You'll have to name him." Eragon looked back at her, confused. "Dragons are not like ordinary creatures, Eragon; they are immersed in natural magic. It is through their bodies that the wonders of self-perpetuating magic that occur frequently througout Alagaesia form. Through them flows a great amount of magic, and not only is it powerful, it is very influential. It is because of the magic that flows through the dragons' blood that all Riders become immortal." She smiled understandingly as Eragon's features expressed awe and shock. "Yes, it is an amazing peace of magic. If you have ever heard tales of great Riders, do not disregard their dragons at all. In fact, praise them, for they are the instrumental reason that the Riders were capable of great feats of magic and power. Before the pact, the full might of the dragons was hard for them to realize, even among their elders. With the elves and humans, they could channel their energy through them, and therefore release the full might of their magical capabilities. Dragons cannot use magic consciously, for that is to deliberate a process for them to perform. They cannot channel the flow of magic within them on their own, and only rarely they are inspired enough to will the world before them to change. It was with the dragons magic that the spell cast to banish the legion was performed, and has diminished the power of future dragons since, although it was a good price to pay at the time. The magic of the dragons also enhances the capabilities of the Riders they are bonded to, giving them natural yet unnatural gifts of pure power. But I will not speak of all the dragons abilities, for the magic that flows through them and their Riders is not a subject that should be taught to such a young and novice Rider." She finished, the last phrase echoing in Eragon's mind. _That will change in due course_. He looked back at his golden dragon, wondering what kind of name would be appropruiate. "I do not no of any names of dragons," he said. "Would you give me a few."

And so Arya began, naming Iormungr, Remingnosk, Quar'lan, Yemerstrong, Skystorm, Lefningr, Balntr, Undwic, Veraptun, Wolintree, Delangum, Akorthrind, and finally, Glaedr. "Your dragon is male, so the ones I have mentioned are the most I can name off the top of my head." Only one resonated with Eragon; the very last one. The name felt so majestic, so regal, so proud and powerful, as if it contained a hidden secret behind it. It reverberated throughout his head, pushing out all other thoughts, save for the sound of the name. He looked back at his dragon, feeling that such a name was very fitting for him. He looked back at Arya, saying loudly, "Dragon, I name thee Glaedr!" Arya's eyes widened slightly, although still slanted. "Are you sure you have never heard tales of the Dragon Riders before?" She had a stern gaze held upon him. Eragon thought for a moment. "Not really, maybe a few times when I was very young, but other than that, I can't recall much. Why do you ask?" Arya nodded. "Such is the way of the world. Galbatorix does not want word of the Riders secrets getting out. No, the reason I questioned you was to see if you named your dragon with your heart or with your mind." Eragon's confusion deepened. He tilted his head, a curious gesture. "Glaedr," said Arya very slowly, "is the name of Morthngal's dragon, the first dragon of the Riders order. It is one that no other Rider has dared use bestow upon their own dragon, mainly out of respect for his feats and accomplishments. You two have much to live up to now." She smiled, as did Eragon. _What a name, what an honor to have. And I named my dragon without knowledge of Glaedr the first!_.

_It is both our honor_, said a deep voice within his mind. He gasped, fear gripping at his insides. Someone was inside his head, and, as he knew from the previous night, one could examine and control one's mind with such an advantage. _Relax, _said the deep voice again, sounding very intelligent. _It is I, Glaedr, your dragon._ Eragon was startled. He had assumed that dragons were more intelligent creatures than any other non human or elf, but he did not think them possible of conscious thought. He queried Arya of this. She smiled again, a sight which Eragon never tired of seeing. "Dragons are, if not even more so, as smart as humans and elves. They can think, predict, reason, determine, distinguish, and above all, feel the feelings of sentient beings such as love, hate, anguish, jealousy, greed, and many others besides. They are not dumb animals with vast stores of powers that the Riders use to get from one place to another. No! They are the most wise, free, and perhaps naturally intelligent beings. We elves absorb knowledge through years of arduous study and training. Although dragon's do train, they are born with their knowledge, and keep learning everyday, week, month, year, decade, and century." This last piece of information startled Eragon. "How long do Dragons live for?" Arya thought for a few moments, then responded. "When joined with their Rider, they will endure forever, the gift of immortality being granted to them as well. As for wild dragons without Riders, I'd venture a guess at about one-hundred-fifty on average. With some luck, a dragon may reach the age of two-hundred, maybe even a few years to a decade more, but beyond that, no dragon can truly live a dragon's life, and they will willingly succumb to death." Eragon shrank from the thought of enduring two-hundred years of life. "How big can they grow?" "They will keep growing until the magic within them starts do fail in power, for it is that which drives the dragons' bodies to grow for over a hundred years or so. For the first year, the dragon will grow at a rapid rate. Thereafter, it gradually grows to such an immense size that the magic within cannot sustain such a large creature and at the same time retain all of its abilities. That is when a dragon will _stop _growing. Now, for actual size; after the first year, a healthy dragon that trains constantly will be about one-hundred feet from head to tail, and after a whole century, will be, about, three-hundred feet or so from head to tail." Eragon gasped at the magnitude of such strength and size. "But then," he said thinking slowly, "how big is Shruikan, Galbatorix's slave dragon?" Arya looked him straight in the eye. Eragon glanced downwards. "He has enlarged his size and twisted his flow of magic with dark rituals, and has also placed many wards around him. He isn't as large as a fully grown dragon, but his size would still be formidable." Arya paused, then continued. "Many of the current Riders have medium sized dragons, except for the two remaining elders." Eragon continued to think. Shruikan would probably be over three-hundred feet long, and would have an immense bulk. The shear size frightened him, and he wondered how powerful the dragon was. Then another question occurred to him.

"I thought there were always three elders, the three oldest of the Riders order?" Arya's face saddened somewhat. "Since Felwin's death, which was, I believe, twenty-five years ago, I believe, no Rider has passed all levels of training in order to qualify to become an Elder. The training for Riders goes in fifteen year intervals. After the thirtieth year of training, the training of the Riders slows down as they travel for the next fifteen years upholding the laws of the stars above. During those fifteen years, they spend at least one month of training while during the rest, wonder the land and keep order. After this third interval, the Rider will return to his training, another five years to be exact. During those five years, the leader of the Riders would reveal the greatest secrets and pieces of information that the Riders hold most dear. Many things are passed on through the generations, things that many have no knowledge about and would astound even the most educated elves who have lived long and magical lives. After these fifty years of intense study, the Rider would retire and become what is known as Theldrin, a rank which would qualify one to become an Elder if there weren't already three Elders. Other than the two current Elders, there are two Thor'gals, one Thor'quan, which is what a Rider is during his forty-fifth to fiftieth years as a Rider, and one who is about to become a Theldrin, although he will automatically become an Elder as soon as the coronation is over. One of the Thor'gauls is in his thirty-ninth year, so soon there will be two Theldrins along with three Elders. The time to strike back at Galbatorix is fast approaching." Eragon wondered how he'd feel in the presence of so many elder Riders. But then he said "But the two Thorguals won't be there, since they, as you said, travel the land." Arya nodded. She said "One is currently with the Varden, the one in her thirty-fifth year as a Rider. The other is stationed in Surda. It is dangerous for the Elders to send the Riders on separate missions, since Galbatorix was able to pick off five very well trained Riders, even an Elder albeit with some dark magic. But sources of the Varden's situated within the king's Empire report that he is very distracted at the moment, undertaking a great project. His vices are many, but beyond that not much can be determined. He has not deigned to leave his castle ever since Felwin and Leatran had fallen. We might as well make use of his absence while we have the opportunity."

Another thought occurred to Eragon. "You told me that Galbatorix, during his attempted takeover of Alagaesia, he gathered about him twelve minions, correct?" Arya nodded. "Then," Eragon continued slowly, thinking very hard. "What special powers do they have. What made them so special that Galbatorix sought them out?" A shadow passed over Arya's face. The air around Eragon seemed to cool with anger, and even the heartening melody of the birds ceased. "That is not a subject that should be taken lightly. All I will say is that Galbatorix bestowed special powers upon them, like he did with Shruikan, nothing more." Eragon's anger flared. He had a right to know these things. After all, he was a Dragon Rider, and he was going along with this strange elf to a strange land. And he would eventually be fighting alongside other Riders at the gates of Uru'baen, trying to cast down Galbatorix or die trying. Then again, he did not want to question nor anger Arya, for her strength, knowledge, speed, gracefulness, and all of her other qualities astounded him, above all her terrible yet beautiful animalistic features. Besides, he would not want to fight a female elf. Where was the honor in that?

Eager to change the subject, for Arya had become very upset with him mentioning the twelve minions of Galbatorix's, he asked "Will you teach me of magic and swordsmanship? I am a as oblivious to the subtleties of them as any novice can be." Arya also seemed relieved at the change of subject. "Magic is a dangerous subject to undertake this early, since you are so young. Still, it would be prudent to teach you the basics should it prove to be necessary. As for swordsmanship, I do not have a blade for you, and a Rider deserves a proper blade. The sword of a Rider is very symbolic and magical part of equipment. It should not be taken lightly." And so she began to teach him over the next twenty minutes about how to perform spells, how to reach within one's self and feel the flow of magic and energy, channel it, and then how to say the necessary spell. "I will have you practice a few simple words. I can't teach you phrases yet, for you do not have the strength to sustain such powerful spells. In order to stem the flow of energy being poured into the spell, you must withdraw your mind from the flow of magic deep within you. The magic has not yet truly become one with you, so it will be difficult for you to perform magic deliberately. It is very important to stop the flow of energy in a spell if you cannot keep it up. But enough warnings aside, I must see you practice." So she began to teach him many words in the Ancient Language, words like stop, back, fire, break, pain, cut, rise, and many others. She also taught him the names of objects like stone, branch, leaf, tree, dirt, water, fire, and others. Eragon strove to memorize the words he was taught, so later he was able to recite them with ease and efficiency. He excelled in pronunciation, as the words rolled off of his tongue naturally. Arya seemed genuinely surprised with his progress. She had told him not many beginner Riders with so little experience like Eragon had been able to say the words of the Ancient Language so easily after only learning them a few minutes ago. "You are a true Rider, Glaedr chose well," she had said. This heightened Eragon's confidence.

Then, for the first time in his life, he searched for the flow of magic inside of his body. It wasn't anywhere specific, it was just there. He felt it flowing like a great river of power, and, with great pride, said "Infa Brisingr!" Leaf burn. He felt a slight tingling sensation in his right arm, and his Gedwey Ignasia burned slightly. The leaf he had been holding in his hand burst into flames, burning his palm slightly. Eragon yelped and threw the leaf down on the path, grasping his blackened hand. Arya laughed, a sound that reminded him of the rapids in the Anora River in Du Lefs Janear splashing against rocks. The sound was so pleasing and calming, every doubt and fear inside of Eragon subsided to nothing. Eragon felt giddy with joy, a new life forming inside him. But then she stopped and the hard reality of life came back to him. His sadness had never been so great. Arya spoke. "Careful, you have to stem the flow of energy being used during a spell. Concentrate and try again." Eragon did so, this time focusing on restricting the amount of energy he put into the spell. This time, a few small sparks appeared on the leaf, searing it, but other than that, no flame. Eragon crumpled up the leaf, proud of his accomplishment. They rode more slowly now, their speed reduced to a gentle trot so that Eragon could focus. In his head, he heard Glaedr's reassuring compliments, telling him that this was important and that a Rider should be able to do this with ease. Eragon continued, until he could master all of the words that Arya had taught him. The next thing she taught him, however, was extremely challenging. She told him to use more than two words, to make a miniature phrase in order for more powerful and varied spells. At first, he could only light a stone on fire, and after that, not perform any other magic while he was solely focused on one task. But eventually, he was able to light the stone, make it rise, and hurl it at a target. The energy drain on Eragon was not great, but he felt it nonetheless. It was after an hour of intense concentration and spell performing, along with energy conservation and other numerous lessons on the origin of magic and how to not use it and only to use it as a last resort. "There are many branches of magic they I will not speak to you of, for this is neither the place nor the time to do so. The better part of your training involves the study of magic." Eragon understood, although he still yearned to know all.

_ It is not right for you to know these things of magic_ said Glaedr through their mental link. Eragon jumped slightly. The dragon had been quiet for a long time. _I know, _said Eragon, feeling slightly foolish at talking in his mind. _Neither of us knows the full extent of our powers. Magic is a dangerous thing, and as Arya just said, it takes the better part of a century to truly understand all there is to know. It would be better to stay content with what I know. I can probably make up a few phrases of my own and see how they work. _Glaedr agreed. Even he did not have the proper training to know what kind of powers he possessed. Eragon pondered these thoughts for the duration of the ride, thinking about magic and its deepest roots. Glaedr said _Do not let these things corrupt you, Eragon. You must accept that you will not understand all of magic and its connection with dragon's for at least five to six decades. And that is when you will retire, unless Galbatorix still lives. Still, not even the eldest of both of our races, even the ones who are Riders and the dragons of Riders, who have spent hundreds of years studying magic do not know all of its effects. Remember how the great Rider Felwin died; some form of magic inside Galbatorix that most likely came from that place he went with Jarnunvosk in Du lefs Janear. Arya said that the Riders leader, Vrael, is the only one who knows what happened at that time, and has not even shared the knowledge with his fellow Elders. The wisdom of age has not failed him yet. And it will not fail you, only you can fail it. You must learn to grow with the natural order of things, for that is how the gods intended things to be. It will be very long before you know all you desire, and right now you must concern yourself about getting to Ellesmera safe with me, together, whole as Rider and dragon should be._ Glaedr's impecable logic and well-reasoned arguments astounded Eragon. The dragon was as wise as any person he had ever encountered before. _You're right, I should purge these thoughts from my mind._

Just then, Arya came to a sudden stop. A man had stepped out from the bushes and shouted "Halt! Who goes there, and what is your business in this isolated sector of Alagaesia?" Eragon allowed silent shock to radiate within his head. This man was the same who had come to Carvahall demanding taxes and fealty to King Galbatorix. _This must be one of the roving cavalries of Galbatorix's army that Arya told me about. What a coincidence that this is the same man who brought pain and suffering to Carvahall._ Eragon wished he could get off his horse right their and stab the bastard through his heart. He clenched his hands. Meanwhile, behind him, Glaedr quickly jumped into the brush, disappearing among the brambles of yellow, green, and red. The path had led onto a road, Eragon had realized. A rough pattern formed over the surface, while one foot trenches were on both sides of the road, separating the forest from it. From the thickness and blur of green, four more men emerged, their swords not drawn, but their hands clenched on the pommels, ready to strike. They all wore thick, shining armor that glinted blindingly with the sunlight. In the crest of the armor there was a small mark, two serpents coiling together. They all had cleaned, oiled helms with a movable mouth peace. On their arms they wore tightened leather bracers, and tightened leather greavers on their shins. On their feet were heavy-duty steel-toe boots, laced up and ripped slightly. They also all wore leather gloves that seemed to Eragon to be resistant to the elements, for they looked as if a tailor had made them yesterday. On their backs were pentagon-shaped shields. The man who had shouted halt had a large, flaming half circle painted in front of his heart. Eragon understood the symbol to mean captain. He stepped forward, and he spoke with thundering finality. His voice commanded power and demanded respect, and was to be given it. He felt Arya contact his mind. _Don't do anything at all. I shall attend to them. _Eragon wondered how an elf woman would be capable of such a feat. As a man, he had a duty to act with pride, honor, dignity, and many other noble sentiments. "What is this? Hm. Two people wondering this far north in Alagaesia? Now why would you be here when civility is the other way? Running off to join the elves, is that what you were doing. Well tut tut, the elves only except their own kind. Damn scoundrels they are anyway. They have all the resources and power in this world and still they hide like frail little pieces of meat that are too cowardly to step out and fight!" The man spat on the ground. Eragon tensed. Arya was letting these statements go by unpunished. How could she stand their and let them defile her race. "Off to join the Varden, I expect then. Well, it's not going to happen. Get off of your horses and lay down. We'll examine the packs, see what you're hiding in them. Once you swear your oaths of fealty, you'll serve your rightful king until you die in his name while trying to restore this land to peace." Eragon got of his horse, as did Arya, which surprised him.

Everything that happened next was a blur. While getting off of her steed, Arya reached into the depths of her cloak, and with amazing speed, threw several daggers at the five men of Galbatorix's cavalry. The first pierced the captain's armor around his neck, which emitted a spray of blood as he choked and grasped at the weapon. Another dagger also connected with another man, piercing through his armor as well, all the way through his heart and out the other side. Two of the daggers missed. The last grazed the helm of final soldier, who flinched, throwing his hands up to protect himself. By then Arya had drew her sword, and, within a matter of seconds, amid the confusion, cut off the hand of a nearby soldier who had the where-with-all to draw his sword. It went flying towards Eragon, the hand still tight around the swords hilt. Eragon froze, not daring to move, but to spectate. He watched in awe as the remaining soldiers regained their composure and began to spar with Arya. She parried their attacks with apparent ease, blocking, slashing, jabbing, and dancing with such grace that it betrayed her non-humanity. During the fight, her hood fell off, exposing her ears and eyes and face. The two men gasped, shocked that this was an elf outside of Du Weldenvarden. Their momentary lapse in concentration was all she needed. With a swing of her sword, she disarmed the one on the right, his sword catching the other in the head, dazing him. With that she stabbed the one she had disarmed through right through the serpentine symbol, an odd metallic cling emanating from the clash of steel on steel. The second soldier, out of desperation, slashed wildly at Arya, who jumped five feet in the air in order to avoid the fatal blow. She then, in turn, with one single motion with her wrist, beheaded the man, another spurt of blood coming form his severed head and neck. The body staggered for a moment, still alive, then fell with a resounding _thud_.

The final soldier, who had lost his hand, had edged towards Eragon with his right hand outstretched. Eragon noticed and stepped on the gleaming sword, and said loudly "Letta!" The energy inside of Eragon depleted rapidly, as the soldier furiously tried to resist the spell. After about half a minute, he gave a shudder and succumbed to the spell. Eragon, remembering Arya's lesson, withdrew his mind from the flow of magic within him, and stared down at the frail man at his feet. Eragon knelt down, picked up the sword, hefted it over his head, gave a deep roar of anger, and brought it down upon the man's head, slicing it off with ease. Blood poured onto Eragon's boots, soaking into the hide it was made of. He stepped back hastily, a bitter taste coating his tongue. He surveyed the damage. five bloody bodies lay on the road, a sea of crimson forming along the bank of the road. Eragon leaned against a nearby tree, stunned at his actions. He had never murdered anyone before. He did not know exactly how he felt. He did not even know what compelled him to commit the deed. And then he thought of Arya, and how she had so easily been able to kill five highly trained and well armored men within a few minutes. _I think she can take care of herself. She doesn't need me, _thought Eragon. _I have taken a life. Not an innocent one by any stretch, but still, a life. _Eragon felt sickened with himself. He did not know if he would ever raise his hand in violence again if this feeling was the price. _It is not your fault, Eragon, _said a voice inside of Eragon. He jumped. He had forgotten about Glaedr. _I urged you to do it, it is my fault above yours. Through my intentions, I willed your subconsciousness to make you perform the act. It was necessary. You will have to kill again, Eragon. You will not always have the luxury of slaying a foe in the heat of a battle. This is a moral test of strength and fortitude, the first you have had as a Rider. I am sorry that I used magic to make you do this. _The last thing Glaedr said shocked Eragon. _You used magic? But Arya said that a dragon cannot use magic unless inspiration sweeps through them. I did not feel anything. I should have felt something? Perhaps there is something wrong with our link. _Glaedr proved him wrong. _No, I concealed my mind from you so you would not be distracted incase you needed to be alert. If you worried about me, the man may have reached his sword and stabbed you. I wasn't going to take that risk, no matter the costs. _Eragon smiled, grateful for the dragon's companionship, but the deed still troubled him. He had killed, no, he had _murdered_. It was a sickening thought.

He jumped as a reassuring hand touched his soldier. It was Arya. "It's all right. The first time is always the worst. It will get easier with time." Eragon grimaced at the thought of being able to kill with no remorse or guilt. "Now help me find their horses so we may steal their supplies, even though we will not need it. Grab the captain's sword as well, it would be handy to have until we reach Ellesmera where a proper Riders sword can be forged." Eragon set off into the brush, finding all seven horses cramped into a small space. His and Arya's had ran to join the others. He emptied the packs of the other horses, which were noticeably bigger and stronger than his and Arya's. He found mostly scrolls, potions, dry foods, and a few drums of water. The most intriguing piece of equipment was a map he found in the captains pouch. It was a detailed section of this part of Alagaesia, showing all the roads and the various military factions stationed throughout the land. Eragon studied it for a few seconds, then stashed it in his own horse and led it along with Arya's back to the horrific scene of the fight. Arya had washed her blade with magic, using magic also to push the bodies into a small ditch where only someone with interest to go down their would find. Ravens and vultures circled overhead, screeching to their brethren about this new food source. From behind Eragon emerged Glaedr, his regalness magnified by the sunlight. There was an air of self-importance coming from his strut. Eragon laughed, despite the feeling of crushing weight on his soldiers. Suddenly he felt very fatigued from the day, his knees buckling. He had been riding all day and had not had a chance to stretch his limbs at all. He felt something, then. It felt like an icy cold wind going right through him. He felt his legs strengthen and his tremors and fear subside. He looked up. There was Arya, a fatigued expression upon her brow. "Thank you," said Eragon, feeling sorry for costing her her own energy. _Yes, thank you,_ added Glaedr. Arya smiled weakly at the dragon, then asked Eragon what he had found. He told her of the map and of the various potions and scrolls, all of which were placed into Arya's pack. She cradled the map, saying that it was a valuable piece of paper. Finally, Eragon explained how Glaedr had used magic. Arya was flabbergasted. "In all my years, I have never heard of a dragon using magic at such an early age. It is rare and extremely extraordinary. You are living up to your namesake, Glaedr." The golden dragon was extremely pleased with the compliment, so much that Eragon felt it himself. Lightened of the burden of having to clean up the bloody mess, he hopped on his horse, anxious and excited to ride on and start his training as a Dragon Rider.

Arya also got on her horse, and they began to ride again. Glaedr continued to run behind them, claiming that he wanted and needed the exercise if he was going to be a great dragon. Eragon smiled, grateful for the elf and his company. With Glaedr happy, he was happy. It was a friendly cycle. But again his thoughts turned to his brother Murtagh, and his father Garrow. He could only wonder how he had reacted, and how his brother was recuperating with limited medicinal supplies. He wondered how they would complete the harvest and how they would get food and still find time to rest. Eragon pushed the thoughts away again reluctantly when Glaedr intervened. The cost of having all of this power was that which he held most dear. Eragon then drew the sword of the fallen captain, examining it closely. It glinted in the light, shining silver with the sun. the hilt was wooden with strips of leather wrapped around it for grip. It was fairly light, yet flexible and strong. As much as he loved the weapon, he despised it, for it had slew the master blacksmith of the town, Horst, a man who had always been good to Eragon. He wished he had picked up a lesser weapon of one of the other four men, no matter how much blood was on them, for the personal death did not stain them. And he rode one, leaving behind him a trail of acidic thoughts behind him.

From the hilltop, the creature surveyed the two horses a kilometer or so away, wondering how best it would be to catch them. Its keen eyesight allowed it to depict an elf and a human, along with a golden dragon. To its left was its partner, equally ugly and putrid smelling. "They are travelling ssslow, now is the time to pick them off." The one on the right agreed solemnly. It's black ragged cloak billowed with the cold wind. It's skeletal hands clenched into a fist. "Yessss, they would not think to find one of usss this close to Du Weldenvarden." Their voices sounded like a person being strangled and a snake hissing at the same time. One would wonder how they could breathe. "The boy will be the easy target, but he is not the one we are afterrr." A plume of air from the creatures face travelled to the tree above them, shielding them from the suns violent rays. The leaves crumpled and turned brown, dying at the contact of such a fatal stench. "The elf," said the one on the right, getting angry, "isss what we'll have to eliminate first. After that, we'll have fresh meat to gorge ourssselves with." With that, they jumped with amazing speed and ran into the forest, intent on destroying their two ancient foes. 


	5. Advanced Training

_**The Dragon Riders**_

_**Chapter 5: Advanced Training**_

_Branch to branch. Leaves scattered with every movement, allowing the rays of the sun to break through. Twigs snapped and various animals scurried away, frightened from their slumbers. Birds flapped furiously into the sky; squirrels climbed quickly to higher positions. The array of colours of the leaves formed a collage of time; red, orange, and a few remnants of the natural green that once thrived vibrantly in the forest, although fading to a dull yellow. The various scents clustered in such a condensed section perfumed the air in a confusing manner, reminiscent of hope. A cold breeze worked its way through every inch of space, encompassing everything in a grip of discomfort. The land seemed to be frozen in place, moving within a certain boundary, limited by an unknown force. While it seemed life stretched on endlessly in each direction, it was a desolate existence, void of freedom and held rigidly, qualitatively worthless and quantitatively plentiful. The tree bark felt firm and provided good grip, similar to burnt lumber. Now to the ground, still a moist cushion at this time; the perfect texture to stalk and pounce on unsuspecting prey. A leaf fell, glistening in the light, highlighting the decaying shade of green. It fell gracefully, caressed lovingly in the air before meeting the ground as gently as a mother would place a newborn down. Of course a newborn could be picked back up._

Eragon's eyes flew open. He felt tense, shaken. The dream he had just experienced was so life-like, so extremely realistic, it was as if he had felt the trees and the ground with his own limbs, smelt the unique air with his own nose, seen the leaf fall to death so suddenly that life still thrummed within it. He could still almost feel the rough tree bark on his hands, the cold wind blanketing him. Carefully he sat up, afraid that he was still in the branches high above the ground. His surroundings were quite ordinary and actually caused him disappointment. Compared to the splendor and vividness of the dream, the experience around him was extraordinarily dull. In his dream, still fresh in his mind, things seemed more, _alive_. Colours were sharper, finite details were much more apparent; every sound had reverberated in his head, echoing with euphony. The sheer vibrancy of his dream juxtaposed with his reality was so great, he hoped that he was dreaming now. Unfortunately, as he rose to his feet, it became much clearer that this was what he had come to know for the past 15 years. Despite this realization, he could still recall how far he could see in the forest, how he could _feel_ the life in it, fading away ever so slowly. _Perhaps it's better not to see things for their full truth_.

Now alert, Eragon rose from his bed, surprisingly comfortable despite consisting of a simple array of blankets. Beside it was a darkened patch of dirt, with peculiar animal prints heading into the woods. The prints took a carefree route before stopping at the foot of a rotting stump, the trunk devoured voraciously. Claw marks were gouged all the way to the top before disappearing into the air. He approached the trunk, wondering at the ferocity and strength such a miniscule creature could possess.

A twig with a single leaf dropped on his head, startling him from his study. As he looked up, he was blinded by a blaze of golden light as a generous weight slammed into his head. Immediately knocked to the ground, Eragon rolled about aimlessly, desperately attempting to shake off the intruder. Despite his efforts, he eventually found himself on his back, spent of energy, staring up into two molten eyes wide with curiosity. An overwhelming sense of joy overtook Eragon. He did not know where it came from, but his happiness resonated with the dragon's and its with his. It gave him a long, sloppy lick on the face, which caused him to burst out in laughter. The dragon attempted to make an effort at this verbal feat, mimicking Eragon's movements and sounds. A small puff of smoke emerged from its mouth and sparks flew from its nostrils, searing the tips of Eragon's tattered collar. He recoiled slightly, unaware of this power. He sat up and set the dragon on his lap, tickling it under the chin. A humble growl emanated from within the depths of its throat.

_Amazing. Only a few days old and already his powers are developing. I wonder what I'm capable of at this point._

_Not much greater than what you possessed a few suns ago,_ jested Glaedr. _Dragons are born with vast potential. We are capable of performing many abilities with unusual amounts of power. I am only beginning to tap into a well of infinite abilities, with much time ahead of me. You, as great as you may become, are limited in what you can do and will not learn your talents as naturally as I do. There is a reason dragons are the mightiest race in all of Alagaesia. You've already experienced first-hand how developed my senses are._

Eragon smiled at the amount of pride and regality Glaedr carried. His thoughts carried a sense of self-righteous purpose, an unflinching certainty that could persuade even the most stubborn minds. The last sentence of Glaedr's self-praise escaped Eragon for a few fleeting moments.

_I was seeing through your eyes!? _Eragon asked, bewildered. _I've never experienced something so real in all my years. Do you always see, hear, smell, and feel this clearly?_

_It is as ordinary to me as anything. _Glaedr's attempt at modesty was blatantly feeble if that, and he seemed to revel in the compliments Eragon ferried, his assertiveness in his superiority solidifying. This also warmed Eragon inside, as if someone had made a pleasant comment about his appearance. _Would you like to look again?_

Eagerly, Eragon closed his eyes. Glaedr had sensed his longing to feel the world as a dragon does. Eragon opened them again, and was astounded at the difference. He could see the patterns in the bark of trees, the veins of leaves, the individual colours in the dirt. A minty, flowery scent wafted over his nostrils, entrancing him in a state of awe. He then saw himself sitting before his very own eyes. The tears and stains on his clothes were highlighted, his boots peeling off, the colours fading with a greyish hue. The imperfections on his skin were also apparent. Various gashes, scars, and bruises were much more contrasted with the paleness of his face. His scruffy brown hair seemed to have been rolled in dirt several times, and his eyes were a much more distinct shade of chestnut then he had remembered.

The more he studied his face through these omniscient eyes, the more he thought about his life. The joys and hardships of a past that was so plain, simple, and straightforward it was almost complicated how one could create a pleasant life from it all came to light. From trips with Garrow down to Yazuac to extort ransoms for limited supplies, to helping his younger brother keep a dog in secret, to simply sitting down in front of a roaring fireplace and exchanging stories with his family while sipping on tea and eating treats. It was peaceful solitude between the three of them, and just them. His thoughts turned sour when he thought of the guard who had given him the battle-scar on his right forearm, when soldiers had unjustly confiscated an entire wagon's worth of supplies as taxes from Garrow during one of their excursions to Yazuac, to his brothers bloodied body, abandoned in a forest, alone. He had left his family, the only people and life he had ever truly known, behind in an instant, and had barely dwelled on that thought. What could be going through his father's mind; anger and fear at why his eldest son had disappeared spontaneously, leaving an injured child and an aging farmer to fend for themselves with the upcoming winter being one of the harshest in years. Those were just a few of the questions Eragon saw in himself, and he had no answers, nor wanted to hear them, let alone ponder the possibilities.

_Enough¸_ said Glaedr, and within an instant Eragon was himself again, seeing the world as hollow again, all surface, no depth. _I did not mean to cause you pain and sorrow, Eragon. It pains me greatly to see you suffer in any way. Don't forget your family, Eragon, but you must push them aside for now. What good will it do to contemplate endlessly on something that you aren't going to find out? None. It only harms the soul to busy oneself with unnecessary thoughts. Focus on the task at hand; invest all your efforts in getting to Ellesmera as quickly and safely as possible to begin our training, together as Dragon and Rider._

Glaedr's reassurance resonated deeply with Eragon. It was exactly what he had wanted and needed to hear. The dragon's understanding of his psychology, of the emotional implications that would result from the journey Eragon was about to undertake, was greater than Eragon's own. It was as if Glaedr knew him better than Eragon did himself, yet his input was that of a separate entity. He now gazed at the golden dragon, now kneeling down and staring intently and questioningly at Eragon. He had never felt so protective of anything. His attachment bordered on obsession, a bond so strong it would never, _could never, _be broken. He had previously only ever cared for his insignificant family, supporting them, maintaining their well-patterned lifestyle, keeping things as pleasant and orderly as possible. Now that was gone, snatched away in a single moment, yet the urge to employ these behavioural feelings persisted. Again his eyes rested on the dragon, and calm came over him. The basic sight of him safe, healthy, and sound, was enough to ease all of his ailments, mind, body and soul. He would transfer the care he had built up for his family to Glaedr, for they could no longer exist in the present situation. The dragon was all that was left that he could invest in intimately, and their relationship, although a few suns old, was as intense and strong as anything Eragon had ever experienced, still growing with each passing second. _Together, as Dragon and Rider._

He cradled the dragon now, his eyes sweeping over its glistening scales. He then found the blue stone incrusted in its forehead, every shade of blue swimming within its depths. He recalled the how that was the aspect of the dragon he was most drawn to, the hypnotic colours bending his will effortlessly. He remembered the storm of visions that had swept through his mind, but pushed them out immediately, when he began to see where they led. Eragon now looked at his right palm, his _Gedwey Ignasia_, as Arya had labelled it. With trepidation, he placed it evenly across the blue stone. To his surprise, his mind remained in the present. His palm, however, warmed at the touch, and he felt rejuvenated, almost healed. His aches disappeared, his muscles relaxed, any and all hurts vanishing. It was a different sensation then the one he felt when Arya had supplied him with energy. This was a warm, calming feeling, whereas the transfer of raw power was more of a shock, as if he had been plunged in freezing cold water.

"Peculiar powers a dragon and Rider share," a melodious voice stated behind him.

Eragon looked up quicker than usual. He had forgotten the elf's presence. He felt somewhat embarrassed at showing so much emotion to a stranger, this one in particular. Her translucent blue eyes lingered over them. Her words seemed to hold a hint of envy.

"Peculiar indeed." Eragon felt Glaedr's sense of accomplishment resonate within him.

Arya allowed herself a weak smile, and then stood up. The grace and flow with which she moved was overwhelming even in the simplest movements. Eragon stared, transfixed. She was elegant and regal, sleek and nimble. Yet she had displayed tremendous amounts of power and speed, dispatching five well trained soldiers without a twitch of effort on her face.

"We should be off. From the map we secured, there is a military outpost stationed not too far South from here. No doubt they'll be wondering what happened to the patrol they had sent out. I'd rather not have to _deal _with such petty distractions. We are still two suns from reaching the edge of Du Weldenvarden, my homeland, and from there it will take roughly a fortnight to reach Ellesmera, which resides in the heart of the Great Forest."

She began gathering and packing supplies, and Eragon followed suit. Within fifteen minutes they had wrapped up the blankets and placed the food supplies in the many compartments of the saddle. As he climbed the steed (something Arya did by simply jumping from her toes), Glaedr hopped on as well from a branch above. The bat-like wings had grown somewhat, and the tail was already developing miniature spikes. Arya turned around.

"It's alright for him to be in the open, but if I say hide him, do it." It was a command, not a request. Eragon nodded solemnly, Glaedr's displeasure screaming inside him, his pride insulted at being deemed too weak for engagement. A low growl emerged from him, surprisingly vicious.

_It is too dangerous, _Arya warned, communicating directly with Glaedr, allowing Eragon to hear as well. _Any sign of something even remotely close to a dragon will arouse great suspicion, and we won't be facing common foot soldiers that are simply doing their job. We would encounter much darker, stronger entities hand-picked by the King himself. I'd rather not lose another Dragon and Rider to the clutches of evil. _

Eragon agreed, Glaedr reluctantly; the dragon had not put the matter to rest. And off they rode. Despite the beating sun, the atmosphere was abnormally cold; the appearance of brightness and warmth was a mask for a bitter cold that shadowed the land. They travelled on a rough road that seemed to have not been travelled upon for years. Overgrown grass and obstructive logs spilled over the path, forcing them at one point to dismount and clear a path. The forest was deafeningly silent, any minor sound magnified tenfold. The shrubs shivered in the wind, leaves crackling. It wasn't solitude, it was isolation.

As they turned they turned the corner, they encountered an unexpected problem. A river, approximately twenty feet across, lay before them. The rapids lashed angrily, frantically trying to reach its destination. Jagged rocks protruded from the water, creating a violent combination that portrayed pain. Eragon examined his surroundings. The river's width seemed to be consistently wide, with no way to pass safely. Far down the river to the left he saw the remnants of an ancient bridge in the river, having collapsed from prolonged exposure to the elements. The rotting wood was covered in moss and was on the verge of snapping clean from the intense pressure of the current, which no doubt had also contributed to its destruction. Arya spoke.

"I guess we'll have to make a way across." Perplexed, Eragon watched as she dismounted her steed and stood by the side of the river, peering over the edge, cupping some of the water in her hand and examining it closely. She then stood up and looked around, seemingly measuring her surroundings with her deliberate eyes. She walked over to a nearby fallen tree, dead for some time. With both arms, she stood it on its base, and lifted it over to the river shore. Eragon was astounded, and he felt a great respect rise within Glaedr at this miraculous feat of strength. With a slight nudge, she tipped the log over the river so it would lie across both sides. However, the log did not fall at a natural space. Instead, it slowed half way through its fall and seemed to be placed on the ground by an invisible hand. She repeated this process several times with other similar sized logs that she seemed to find instantaneously and from great distances. At one point she set off into thick brush and out of nowhere grabbed and dragged, with ease, another two logs. Eragon wondered how she could see, let alone carry them as if they lay there before her. After a few minutes, she had assembled a makeshift bridge, with half a dozen or so logs laid across the river from one side to another.

"We still can't cross with the horses, the logs will separate," Eragon stated. He doubted the horses would even attempt to cross. Arya, ignoring his theory, kneeled by the log-bridge and placed her palms on them. She then began to mumble indistinguishable words that, despite being barely more than a whisper, pounded relentlessly against Eragon's ears. He knew not what the words meant, but could feel their weight pressing against him, the power and authenticity they carried astounding. He walked over to where Arya knelt, and stared wide-eyed. The logs had begun to mold together, melting and reshaping until they lay, unified, as a solid, single platform. He jumped as he felt tremors below him. The ends of the logs were being absorbed into the ground, providing stability to the contraption. With a few more unsettling words brimming with knowledge and preciseness, the bridge was complete.

It was an amazing piece of work, Eragon thought. The top was smoother than the finest hardwood floors found in the homes of the upper-class. The bridge was a natural extension from the soil, appearing to grow out of one end and into the other. Any human would be dumbfounded as to how such exquisiteness was achieved, and why in such a desolate, mediocre part of the land.

"Quickly now," Arya beckoned, and Eragon recovered from his fixation on the bridge, mounted his steed, and followed her across. The horses seemed indifferent to this new development, disregarding the river below. He started to comment on her work.

"That was - " Eragon couldn't think of a word to sum up his feelings of awe, fear, respect, desire, and pure bewilderment at the act Arya had just performed. _Sensational, remarkable, unbelievable,_ Glaedr finished. Once again the dragon was able to capture and communicate the feelings Eragon felt within with the greatest clarity and exactness. Arya's razor teeth glinted in the light as she gave a smile, looking more animalistic than usual. _The powers she possesses are extraordinary; can you imagine what other members of her race are capable of_. Eragon agreed. He also felt a twinge of fear; if elves as mighty as Arya were a dime a dozen in Du Weldenvarden, and had remained dormant for decades in the shadow of Galbatorix, just how powerful an enemy were they facing?

Focused on his thoughts, Eragon barely realized Arya had stopped three quarters of the way across the bridge. She stared intently into the forest, still as a rock. Silence overtook them; even the river was muted. "Hide him."

Confused, Eragon opened his mouth. As he was about to speak, his horse let out a gargantuan bellow and stood on its hind legs. Eragon fell hard on the spell-bound bridge, landing on his good arm. The steed, packed with supplies Arya had previously stored and the remnants of the roving cavalry they had encountered, bolted with lightning speed in the opposite direction. Eragon stood up groggily, wondering at the animal's sudden disappearance. He turned around. Arya's steed had also vanished, having sensed danger as well. She had, unlike Eragon, managed to retain the saddle. Her sword was drawn in her right hand, her right palm open. She was frozen in space, unflinching. Eragon also drew his sword, gripping it tightly, ready to react to any oncoming attackers. He drew closer, silent. After a minute of inactivity, he felt it was safe to speak once again.

"What's going on - " he was cut off instantly. A force, unlike any he had felt before, hit him all over his body at the same time. He was thrown back several feet to the beginning of the bridge, landing hard again, this time on his back.

"HIDE HIM!" she screamed.

Eragon lay there for a moment, recollecting himself. The impact with which he had landed was not great, but jarring nonetheless. He sat up slowly, trying to figure out what was happening. Ahead of him, he saw what had disrupted their journey. A dark figure, ragged and decayed, stood before Arya. A hood covered the creatures face. From what Eragon could make it out, it bore no clothing of any sort apart from the hood. Its body seemed to be burnt and rotting, flakes of skin peeling off much like the wood on the walls of the tool shed in Palancar Valley. The body seemed hollow yet solid. Along the forearms were jagged black spikes running from the wrist all the way up to the elbow, darker in contrast to the rest of the body, which had a grey overcast. He could not make out the hands, if that is what the beast had. The creature had a demonic, unholy demeanor, its presence a sign of impending doom. And then it spoke.

"We are hhheeere for _it_. Ssstand down and die quickly. Or not, I enjoy the thrill of ripping the life from one in a feebele sstruggle, and it has been eessspecially long since we've indulged on the blood of an elllf." Every word came has an echoing whisper, the words hanging in the air with malice, casting a shadow of despair upon the land. They didn't feel ferocious, or angry. They were systematic, intent on destruction and inflicting punishment. Arya didn't budge. In fact, she assumed a ready stance. The creature laughed, and it was beyond terrifying. It was a harsh, cacophonic noise, akin to the snarl of an angry animal. "Verrry well." It enjoyed the opportunity to bring death unwillingly against a struggling opponent.

It attacked, throwing its arms up and then down hard, the spikes screaming for fresh blood. With even greater speed, Arya brought her sword up to catch the blow, but was thrown off balance, something Eragon had not yet seen from her. With unnatural agility, the creature began to swing wildly with its arms. Arya deflected all the blows, backing off and dancing on her toes as she did. The creature jabbed, slashed, and hacked furiously, but to no avail. Arya's was able to anticipate his each and every move, and Eragon could sense its growing frustration. Its movements grew wilder, allowing Arya to land small nicks and cuts here and there, which it seemed to ignore altogether. No blood oozed from the open wounds. Instead, a few plumes of dust emerged as metallic dust spilled to the ground.

_Don't just stand there like a fool, act! _Glaedr roared. Eragon stopped admiring the fight, rising to his feet again, faster this time. The words Arya had shouted at him and what had transpired finally took effect.

_Where are you, I can sense you nearby._

_Hiding like she told me to do. Now help her, I'm safe in the trees, do not worry._ The one thing Eragon couldn't do was not worry. He advanced towards the fight, Arya and the creature still exchanging frantic blows with inhumane power and speed, especially for their size. As he did, however, he felt _something_. It wasn't Glaedr, he knew that much. It was foreign, unknown, and held him in place. It also wasn't the same feeling as when Arya had subdued him magically. He could still move, but an anxiety kept him frozen to the spot, fearing any movement would cause tremendous harm. He became aware of his body, his breathing, every single nerve responding unnecessarily to an approaching danger. A danger that came a moment later, as a sharp object slashed him across the upper back, knocking him down and sending him tumbling forwards in fear. Eragon let out a wale as the scar tore further, the blood seeping through his shirt. There was a burning sensation as well, as if someone had doused his wounds with salt. His sword was luckily still in hand. He spun around and swung aimlessly, not caring what he hit as long as he hit something.

He had swung with his injured right arm, and the sword moved slowly through the air. It stopped mid-flight, making contact with his attacker. Eragon looked up. Another one of the dark, hooded creatures had emerged. It held the blade of the sword he had retrieved earlier in its grip. Eragon could now inspect the hands of the creature. They were thick yet skeletal in nature, and the texture was consistent with the rest of its body; flayed, rotted, and burnt. There was an ink-like substance coursing throughout the hand and dripping on the ground, colouring the grass a deathly shade of black. There were five fingers, identical to a human, but the nails extended much like daggers, and had serrated edges. The feet were much like that of a bird; three toes, each with a talon used to capture, subdue, gouge, maim, and ultimately kill prey. Eragon dared a glance upwards. The body had a rough exterior, sinewy and unwrinkled. As he looked further upward, he saw just the underside of the face, the rest hidden beneath a hood. A small beak curved downwards, covered in red with meat hanging from the sides, no doubt from the creatures last indulgence. A waft of air came over Eragon, bringing with it the scent of the creature. It was a vile, putrid odour that reeked of the most foul and loathsome combinations he had ever experienced in his life. His eyes watered and skin burned. A green leaf beside him crumpled and turned brown at the creature's devastating breath. It walked over to him purposefully, almost dutifully.

At this point Eragon had recovered from his trance and had withdrawn several feet. But still the creature came closer, more horrific and disturbing than anything Eragon had ever seen, heard of, or even imagined. Another wave of its aroma came over Eragon, forcing him to cover his eyes and cough hard. The cuts on his arms burned greatly as he brought them up to shield from the stench. Closer it came. Closer, closer, until it as standing right over him. Eragon stared up into the hood, and thought he saw a glint of red.

At that moment, a single green leaf fell on the head of the creature, singed at its touch. This momentary distraction caused it to look up. As it did, from another section of the forest, there was a flash of dazzling light. Before Eragon could comprehend what had happened, the creature was rolling on the floor, desperately flailing. Glaedr had pounced on its unsuspecting head, and began clawing and biting with disturbing viciousness. The creature let out several squeals as the dragon punctured every bit of skin it could reach, avoiding the heavily spiked forearms and sharp nails. Again Eragon sat still, too scared to act upon this advantage. It rolled and rolled until finally it had regained some measure of composure and stood up. With one head shake, the creature flung Glaedr into a nearby tree, sending him to the ground hard. Eragon felt a jolt of pain run through his spine and knees. It shocked him back into reality, and he lunged for his sword. Except the creature's talons clutched the blade. It stooped down and picked up the sword. The cling was abnormally loud as the metal snapped in two pieces. Eragon gazed at the monster, defeated. He had no way to defend himself, and Glaedr was injured. Glaedr, his dragon, his partner-in-life. The one he had sworn to protect, not only because of their bond, but as homage to Garrow and Murtagh, to make sure their sacrifices were not in vain. And this _thing_ had tossed him aside, as leisurely as a toy a child grows tired with.

A curious thing happened next. A tingly feeling swelled deep within him, nowhere in particular. A pulse of energy ran through him, coursing in his veins. He concentrated it, and directed it all into one single burst. With a yell, he released this pent up excess of energy, letting it spill into the external world. There was flash of bright blue light, similar to flames, and he sent the creature flying back, over the bridge, and into the water. His knees buckled and he collapsed on the spot, too weak to keep his frame upright. He could only watch as Arya continued dueling with the other creature. Both were still trading blows with enormous strength, neither seeming to gain the upper hand. _Why doesn't she just use magic?_

The other creature, now in the river, was squealing with displeasure. It struggled to stay afloat, and could barely hold on to the rock that kept it from being swept away. This noise pierced Eragon, reminding him of a severely injured yet conscious deer. The creature was calling out for its partner, which was too intently locked with Arya to pay any attention. The creature sparring with Arya recoiled as a few of the spikes on its arm went flying. It backed away further into the forest, leaving the other trapped helplessly in the water. Eragon watched as it retreated further into the forest, dismayed. It was surprised at how successfully the elf had fended it off. It let out choked, rasping snarl, and took a vicious swipe at Arya with its knife-like claws. However, Arya once again bettered the creature's technique, and with one simple movement, swatted the hand-claw down, making a crunching noise upon impact. The creature let out a high-pitched squeal, drowning out the whimpers of the one stuck in the river entirely. Clutching the injured hand in the other, it leaped to the side, attempting to evade further damage. It began to run, and the movements were eerily similar to how a human would run, albeit with twice as much speed. Arya made a slight motion with her hand, and the creature tripped on itself, landing hard at the edge of the river.

At that exact moment, the one in the river, devoid of energy, slipped past the rock, and was swept down the river, being thrown about like a rag doll. The creature on land managed to grab on to the outstretched arm of its helpless partner, the claws lodging in with the barbed arms. Arya methodically approached, her sword dangling at her side. The creature managed a feeble kick, at which Arya responded with a hard stomp, snapping the ankle. Another squeal. Arya pointed her sword directly at the throat of the thing, considering it for a moment. A gust of wind followed, removing the hood. Eragon could only make out a beak longer than what he had expected. Arya raised her sword, and let it fall gracefully upon the creature. The disturbing whines stopped, the body convulsing slightly. A hissing sound emerged from the remaining creature, still unable to remove itself from the water. Arya drew her sword to her hip, poised to land another fatal strike. Sensing doom, the creature twisted with every ounce of energy it had. Arya's swipe connected with its arm, slicing through effortlessly and sending it spinning high into the air. The creature's screams died away as it was swept down the river, ramming into rocks as it did so. Arya stood for a moment, collecting herself. She then sheathed her sword and made her way towards Eragon, labouring. She seemed noticeably weakened by the ordeal.

"Are you alright," she said, kneeling beside him and examining his wounds. Eragon drew a few deep breaths and readjusted himself, sitting upright.

"I think I'm fine, just a little weak." Arya placed her hand on his shoulder, preparing to transfer some energy into him. He swatted her hand away. "I don't need it. I can still walk. Besides, you look like you need every ounce of energy you can muster." She did not protest, and Eragon sensed relief emanate from her. Eragon's eyes lingered over her. She had not a single cut or bruise, her pristine skin still intact. Her hair had darkened with sweat and clung to her face. Her breathing was heavy, her frame looking more delicate. The pointed ears burned red. She had managed to deflect every blow that came her way, yet she looked as if all the blood had left her body completely. A sharp jolt ran through his back, snapping him out of his trance. _Glaedr._

With reserves of energy he didn't know he had, Eragon leaped up and sprinted to the dragon, their connection guiding Eragon to him. He found Glaedr nestled in a bed of leaves, licking his paw. Eragon reached for him, only for his fingers to be nipped at. He withdrew as his crimson dripped from his fingers. He attempted to talk mentally with the dragon, but found this form of communication ineffective. Glaedr had blocked him out, and Eragon felt as if he was talking to a brick wall that blocked out all sound.

_Leave him be_, he felt Arya say inside his head. _Dragons are proud creatures and Glaedr is no exception. Let him tend to himself, and do not mention it later. He is fine; the only thing injured is his pride._

Eragon gave the dragon another long look, still ignoring him entirely, and then turned back. The second most pressing question burst from him.

"What attacked us?"

Arya gave a great sigh, resting against a nearby tree. "Those are called the Ra'zac. They are an ancient race of Alagaesia, almost as old as the dragons and elves. An evil breed, their strength and skill matches that of my race and can even exceed it. Consider us lucky that these two were quite young."

Eragon closed his eyes, an image of the hooded monstrosity standing above him forming in his mind. Everything about it suggested death - the colour, the smell, the build, the movements, and more. The very aura it gave off was paralyzing and toxic. And they were supposedly the newborns of the race. Eragon shuddered. "Why would they pursue us?"

"A host of reasons I'd think. Ancestral wars, attempted genocides of their kind occurring constantly throughout history, personal grudges, or purely for the pleasure of inflicting pain and suffering as much as possible, the ones they are doing it to an added bonus. But the overriding reason would be that Galbatorix is now aware of a new Rider, and is already sending out his most deadly servants to destroy him. He may already know where we are and attend to us personally." Arya wasn't fazed by her words, but they hit Eragon almost as powerfully as the magical language she spoke in to cast spells.

"He has enslaved them? How is that possible? Those _things_ are ruthless killers that are determined to burn the world for their sick entertainment?"

"You've answered your own question, Eragon. You can see how useful such cruelty would be in the service of the King. It is also beneficial to the Ra'zac. With Surda to the south, and Du Weldenvarden making up the northern third of the land, the Ra'zac are forced into the heart of the empire, in Uru'Baen, Dras Leona, and other various cities situated within. Should they prove a nuisance to the people, for they are natural predators of life itself, the King would exterminate them without an afterthought. He also may have forced them to swear oaths of loyalty to the King and Empire, making sure they do no harm against him, for they could inflict catastrophic damage. By providing their skills to be at his disposable, they are guaranteed to survive and prolong the existence of their race. If not, no doubt the humans would've have worked hard to drive them out and attack them on sight. The ra'zac are not tolerated by any race, particularly humans, who inhabit the lands they naturally reside in. Many human communities have been decimated by the ra'zac, who are built specifically to prey on humans. Their vision is superb, they have great speed, omit a putrid odour, and their bodies are comprised of naturally grown weapons as you saw. They work best in the shadows, where you are at your most vulnerable, a part of the darkness themselves. These ones were clearly novices, attacking in the presence of light, which they find equally as disturbing as we do the night."

So the King had not only the greatest and mightiest army at his feet, with countless forms of magic at his fingertips, but an entire race committed to extinguishing the flame of life. And his power still managed a stranglehold on life. "How many ra'zac are there?"

"Only a few hundred, luckily. Their numbers have dwindled greatly after being hunted relentlessly by humans, elves, and Riders especially. They once numbered in the high thousands, wreaking havoc on any who ventured to far west. But enough of this history lesson, it isn't important at the moment. We are both tired and injured, and best make as much ground as we can. The other ra'zac will inform its brethren of what has happened, and we won't be so lucky a second time facing the greater members of their race." She walked over to the dropped saddle, hung it over her shoulder as a knapsack, and made her way to the dead ra'zac. Eragon followed, curious as to how the creature's face looked up close.

His face contorted with disgust. The face was caved in slightly, the beak cracked hand dangling to the side at the centre. Arya had obliterated it so brutally, that any semblance of its appearance could not be found. Arya withdrew a small jar from the saddle, and scooped up some of the smoke-coloured powder that had spilled from the ra'zac's wounds. It was fine, akin to sand. He noticed how careful she was not to get any on her. Eragon considered questioning this, but decided against it. She had exhausted most of her energy unexpectedly in his defense, and he did not want to tire her further with childish questions that could be easily and more elaborately answered later when they weren't aching from this intense confrontation. More importantly he wished to share his thoughts with Glaedr and discover his views on the matter, but the dragon remained guarded, angry at being humbled so effortlessly. Despite him distancing himself from his Rider, Eragon could still feel the resentment pulsing in the dragon's head.

"Let us be off. The longer we tarry the more time Galbatorix has to capture us."

They began to walk along the river. The horses were too far to bring back magically she had said, to Eragon's dismay. Your mental reach can only go so far. This piece of information disturbed Eragon further. Galbatorix was able to assert his rule over an entire section of Alagaesia with ease. What was he truly capable of? Another thought occurred to Eragon, and he allowed his curiosity one more indulgence.

"One last thing for now." Arya did not make any motion to prevent him from continuing. "Why didn't you use magic to defeat the ra'zac? From what you've told me elves are blessed with powers of natural magic and have abnormal strength. Surely you could have performed a spell or two and end it quickly?"

Arya did not respond immediately. She simply continued walking, her grace somewhat withered. Without looking at him, she explained. "Galbatorix, whether personally or through one of his spell casters, has had all ra'zac protected from magical harm. Most spells I know that would be could be used directly against them would prove ineffective. Ra'zac cannot perform magic, which puts them at a severe disadvantage against magical beings such as elves and Riders. Another benefit of their allegiance, if it can be called that, with the King. I could have used magic to manipulate the world around me, as I did with the trees to make the bridge, but I choose not to." Eragon did not ask why she didn't use magic in this manner. He felt it was a personal matter and he didn't want to broach such subjects. After a few seconds, what she had said registered with him, and he responded immediately, as it contradicted with what had just happened.

"I used magic though, when I was cornered by the other ra'zac. I felt a surge of energy and just, let it go. It looked like flaming water."

Arya stopped and whirled around, looking at him intensely, a fear swimming in her eyes. "Y - you were c - cornered and…" she trailed off, unable to continue. Her hands trembled and her eyes bore deeply into his.

"Well, there was the other ra'zac that was in the water. You were fighting the other. This one came up behind me and struck me on the back. It was about to strike again when I just…snapped."

Arya didn't seem to hear him. Her eyes were swimming with water, her hands clenched and shaking violently.

"It's alright, I'm fine. And managed to use magic against it, which you said was impossible. So we have something to be happy about!"

Arya moved so quickly all Eragon saw was a blur. Silence. Then a cracking noise and a fair sized tree next to them tipped over, crushing the grass and shrubs beneath it, landing with a great thud. Arya's sword was drawn, covered in sawdust. She was breathing heavily, though not from the magnificent feat she had just accomplished. She dropped the sword and clutched her hair, almost pulling it off her head. She dropped to her knees, and let out a great scream full of anger, fear, and hint of disappointment. Eragon stood still, shocked at her sudden outburst. One observation he had made soundly about the elf was that she was extremely controlled in her emotions, never letting them get the best of her. Always steadfast and calm, she had now lost these qualities that magnified her grace, which heightened the significance of her rage. Eragon finally found the courage to muster a few words.

"What - what's wrong. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, you did wonderful," she croaked, her voice high. "But you never should have been put in that situation in the first place. It was my duty to protect you at all costs, and I was…overconfident in my abilities. You were as good as dead, and the fact that you found a hidden power within is extraordinarily lucky. I've travelled the land for decades and I made an error so fatal that even a novice recruit wouldn't. It isn't acceptable, and it _can't _happen again. I won't let it." She was talking more to herself than Eragon. Her concern was his protection, not him as an individual. A flicker of annoyance festered within him.

"We can't change anything now. All we can do is learn from this and be better prepared in the future. It's not your fault, we're - " He stopped himself; he was about to say 'we're all human.' "- we're not perfect." She still seemed distraught, absorbed in her own self-deprecation at almost costing the newest Rider, one of the seven remaining not including Galbatorix, his life. Eragon decided to take a bit of an offensive. "We are wasting time here. You said yourself Galbatorix knows of a new Rider and may already know where we are after killing a patrol and two ra'zac. Sitting here wondering what might've been is counter-productive." She nodded solemnly, standing up quietly and continuing down the path they were travelling.

Eragon mulled over what had transpired in his mind. The elf had shown a more human side, betraying her natural splendor. It made her seem young and inexperienced. They carried on without exchanging a single word or thought, nor any acknowledgement of the other, walking for hours until the sky was so dim Arya was required to use magic to create a false light so they could find their way to a safe and comfortable spot to rest. Glaedr, sulking behind him the entire time, didn't utter a sound, still moody over his unsuccessful encounter with the ra'zac. Eragon was essentially alone, and it reminded him of the countless times he had sat by the edge of Palancar Valley, pondering politics, what he would hunt the next day for his family, and most often wondering about the world beyond him. _Perhaps it's better not to see things for their full truth_.


End file.
